Through the window pane I watch them eating.
I see them through the sliver of silver curtains
that sweep the floor like ball gowns.
Everything is perfectly color coordinated,
and new born babies coo like doves.
I stand here day and night
through every season
Frost bitten in deep bitter snow
or sunk into hot August mud.
I can barely blink at the life
in front of me.
I watch their children grow,
the new and old marriages,
vacations planned, bought, and taken,
baseballs tossed, ballet slippers worn,
baking and sewing, building and crafting,
visits from their relatives, in-laws, divorce and death,
(not necessarily in that order)
the family life.
Through the ages I’m watching
other peoples’ lives.
If only I could turn around,
toss my envy into the compost
beside the perfect houses, and turn around
to see the many roads that reach out into my own horizon.
There are other paths
I know because I can feel the sun
on my shoulders, urging me to move,
and turn to face an uncharted future, but
my eyes are glued to the Norman Rockwells, and the
The instagram of domestic paradise