Citadel

The oval room is filled with windows,
floor to ceiling.

Outside, the sky is fiercely blue with rushing clouds:
the kind of blue that could be Bermuda blue or
Polar bear in the bath blue; the kind of wind
that whisks you.

Below, there could be rows of buildings or wheat,
stretches of landfills or
mountain chains.

Inside, in the center of the floor where you are standing—
in what could be a lighthouse, a sky-scraper, a crumbling castle's
tower, a sophisticated secret fort built atop branches of trees—

you are alone, and you are not moving.
The room is irresistibly quiet.

When you begin to see that a window isn't
so unlike a door. When you gradually
become less concerned with reflections
within the frames.

When you gently approach the brightest
pane with the most serene of confidence.

And you find that the window is open.
And what's there, below, is wide.