Conduit and Canvas

It had not occurred to me that the sun would go down.

It had not occurred to me that I would have a time limit, or a way in which I must conform. It is nice, at times, to feel like there are things that exist outside of stricture, but then again, this month of writing via prompts is clearly not without borders, albeit malleable ones that fold gently around the individual.

But it had not occured to me that the sun would go down, that my attempt to observe something outside would be pulled back into the more elementary attempt to see. That poetry would be usurped by pragmatism. Quick, make any observation.

I once sat in the spot I now am and wrote about the sunset as seen through my three-in-a-row dining room windows, a tryptich of midwestern art.

The horizon is orange sherbet. (Or midwestern dessert.)

I am eating my dinner in the dark so that I can see these things; I am writing in the dark so that I can see these things.

I leave the table to stand closer to the window and my shadowy border bounces into view, pulled into being by the humanity in the rest of the house, the lights in their spaces. Light against absense of light on the divider between it, sometimes a conduit, sometimes a canvas.

Today’s prompt: Pick a window in your home and spend 10-15 minutes there looking outside. What do you see? What details are a part of this common view that you can give new attention to now?

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