When I was ten, I moved to my own room.
Tiny, but swaddled warm by walls of cream.
And from the east, the morning light consumed
What gloom might last of ling’ring night, now dreams.
With colors bright, a view (but not too much)
Of a new world. Daily on window’s sill
I perched to watch the trees the breeze would touch.
The birds flew by; my heart would lose its chill.
But not too long ago, the view grew pale.
I longed for warmth my view had ceased to provide,
The breeze was still, the air turned stagnant, stale.
My room, once small and warm, now cold inside.
This confinement will soon shrivel my soul,
A wider view, the world is now my goal.
—
Photo Credit: Angelina Risnoveanu
