Looking through the Writing Windowpane
"Good writing is like a windowpane."
George Orwell
On this weary day
Because of my recent move there are many new subjects for my writing, so I will start with the description of my neighborhood. As I look out my front window (all right, the only window in this apartment faces north onto Sunrise Avenue), I see the apartment building across the street.
It has two stories and is painted brown and tan. In front of the building is a palm tree and a flag pole, with the Stars and Strips moving in a slight breeze. There are black postal boxes located in front of the courtyard, which is surrounded by a wall and locked gates. The window of the apartment, which appear to have three bedrooms, look out onto the street.
As I look at those apartments, I remember living in a two-story apartment building. At that the time we lived upstairs in apartment number 13, which cut down on the trick-and-treaters on Halloween. I remember climbing the stairs of that apartment carrying bags of groceries, which is something I could not do today. I am lucky to get up the two steps to my studio with only my purse and keys. The thought of climbing a flight of stairs wears me out.
On this weary day
I can't yawn my time away,
as I look out my window glass
and watch the white clouds rushing past.
Because of my recent move there are many new subjects for my writing, so I will start with the description of my neighborhood. As I look out my front window (all right, the only window in this apartment faces north onto Sunrise Avenue), I see the apartment building across the street.
It has two stories and is painted brown and tan. In front of the building is a palm tree and a flag pole, with the Stars and Strips moving in a slight breeze. There are black postal boxes located in front of the courtyard, which is surrounded by a wall and locked gates. The window of the apartment, which appear to have three bedrooms, look out onto the street.
As I look at those apartments, I remember living in a two-story apartment building. At that the time we lived upstairs in apartment number 13, which cut down on the trick-and-treaters on Halloween. I remember climbing the stairs of that apartment carrying bags of groceries, which is something I could not do today. I am lucky to get up the two steps to my studio with only my purse and keys. The thought of climbing a flight of stairs wears me out.
Labels: poem, window, window glass, windowpane, Writing
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