Through our window, everything is gold. It blazes the grass, flushes the wildflowers, brightens the weatherboard homes across the street. The neighbours dance in glimmering sprinkler beams. A wide golden yard, full of them. On our windowsill, my wife rests her hand on mine. A clink of gold rings, the sound all and so rich. Maybe that’s where we should keep them, all the warm things, the good things. Out there, free.
Through our window, everything is grey. It heavies the snow, mutes the pavement, dulls the weatherboard homes across the street. The neighbours dance in their window. A tiny golden square, full of love. Seated on our countertop, my wife rests her hands in her lap. A shuffle and a sigh, the sound all and so empty. Maybe that’s where I should have kept them, all the warm things, the good things. In here, close. I turn to her and switch a lamp on.
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