Excellent Hearts are windows to heaven The windowsill by Sergeant Floyd

The glass in the pane looks outside. To a park, to an alley, to children playing stick ball in the street. Outside to olive juniper berries or mugging concrete. Outside to musically scaled rain or scratchy wool mufflers, deafening snow. But what sits on the windowsill inside? A sun catcher? A ceramic teapot? Symbols of the warm comforts of a home. Perhaps a porcelain, lovely but poised to break. It's in breaking that treasures, even trinkets become all the more valuable. But a heart can be fumbled and dropped too many times. Loosen it's dust of petaled roses. Become a chamber pot that can no longer carry water. So keep polishing the glass and wiping the sill and let sunshine be the frame around it. Guard your view, praise song form sight. In the garages of souls, there are so many broken windows. Windows that fracture light, cast shadows not rainbows, menace and on the sill, cobwebs, spiders and flies.

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