Messenger at the Window
"A small visitor carries whispers of what endures."
Every morning, like clockwork,
you arrive at the pane,
feathers glinting in the pale light,
tiny wings carrying messages
I cannot read,
but somehow understand,
as if the world paused long enough
to whisper its secrets through you.
I watch from the corner of the room,
where shadows linger long after sleep,
and you, indifferent to absence,
tap on glass as if to say:
“I remember. I am here.
Have you tidied the corners of your day?”
Coffee cools. Streets fill with traffic.
Moments pass.
And yet you return tomorrow,
and the next day—
a small, insistent constancy
against everything that fades.
I press my hand against the window.
Somewhere between you and me,
time folds:
a breath, a heartbeat,
a fleeting visitor,
soft as care,
refusing to vanish,
leaving only the quiet insistence
of being remembered.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 8:16 AM UTC
Messenger at the Window
"A small visitor carries whispers of what endures."
Every morning, like clockwork,
you arrive at the pane,
feathers glinting in the pale light,
tiny wings carrying messages
I cannot read,
but somehow understand,
as if the world paused long enough
to whisper its secrets through you.
I watch from the corner of the room,
where shadows linger long after sleep,
and you, indifferent to absence,
tap on glass as if to say:
“I remember. I am here.
Have you tidied the corners of your day?”
Coffee cools. Streets fill with traffic.
Moments pass.
And yet you return tomorrow,
and the next day—
a small, insistent constancy
against everything that fades.
I press my hand against the window.
Somewhere between you and me,
time folds:
a breath, a heartbeat,
a fleeting visitor,
soft as care,
refusing to vanish,
leaving only the quiet insistence
of being remembered.
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