From the upstairs window.



A drifting blanket

certainly thick enough

to stand on,

this pale heavy fog

completely envelops

just one lonely town

in one lonely world

where we survive


pretending that we’re

all so different

from one another,


Loving, struggling,

longing, working,

doing and feeling

the same things

regardless of shape, scent,

or sound surrounding

our entirely meaningful

but undeniably

minute routine,


we share this one place in existence.


The Here. The Now.

Our island home is

just a speck of blue

where some swim

and others drown

while fighting

the powerful currents

carrying us through

this homogenous

ocean of being,


(because it’s easier choking

on a lungful

of unwarranted conviction

and the unsubstantiated certainty

that there is no ocean

and there are no tides,

than it is embracing

that we’re all along

for the same ride.)


In the faces of both

god and reason

we give up on that which

is worth anything

and make idols of that

which is worth nothing.


But some of us feel the tides,

and you who feel them

feel me,

and we are in it together.


We’re strangers.

We’re neighborhood acquaintances.

We’re chance encounters.

We’re dear friends.

We’re mothers and fathers,

son and daughters,

sisters and brothers,

aunts and uncles.

We’re lifelong lovers,

and we all feel each other.


Energetic ley lines extend

in a sticky web

across the miles,

glueing us together

beneath the fog,


assuring us

of the tide’s wild ride,

and reminding us of

the one truth we know,

that we’ve always known:


that we are never truly alone.



Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

2 thoughts on “From the upstairs window.

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