There was once a small window, and out of this window there was the view of yellow flowers in a field, mountains jagging in the distance, white-capped. Sunlight. I am not the one who built this window, nor the one who found the view or sowed the flowers wild. I am not anyone important. I am only someone who saw out of this small window and for a time too brief thought “how beautiful,” like so many others. But now the window is gone. The field and flowers, mountains. Gone.
I wrote about you recently. Not under the guise of poetry as I sometimes do but in a way unguarded. I hope you don’t mind. I hope you already know everything I have to say. If you are in a place where there is more after the end, I hope you are well and taken care of.