By The Window Sill

Silent streets below,
and walls bathed in yellow.
The rays peeking,
through the lightened hair, seeking,
the soup bowl of jade,
and It’s steaming broth.
The coffee cups of melancholy
and it’s fading froth.
The cotton sheets riffled in-between,
and gloom nowhere to be seen.
The day was coming to its end,
but the stories were on the mend.
The window we’d kept open,
for the world to look through,
stood beside, wide and complete.