Windowed Dreams

Tayla Vannelli

Humanity once obeyed sunshine. 
Gods were made to worship the powerful orb; 
days lived only as long as the sun. 

Outside was a necessity, an ignored factor. 
No one realized the gift of feeling 
raindrops, a tree against your back, wind. 

Today, gray paint absorbs my soul. 
A painting of nature taunts my desire; 
my lock screen reminds me where I am not. 

I never knew the blessing of a window 
until I spent eight hours longing for truth: 
night equal to the day, rain and sun unknown. 

The monotony of fluorescent lights demands 
retreat. With laptop in hand, I fly to that 
table among the wind, trees, and sun. 

An hour spent above, knowing the sky, but 
phone calls and a dying battery urge me back: 
to sit, once again, in the office without windows.