I stare out an old window at my silent

neighbors, the wind is cold and blows from outside,

through thin panes. 

 

Fog and rain among the tombstones

and I smile at my neighbors. We are so alike, quiet 

in our thoughts. 

 

I wonder what they would say, 

if they heard my thoughts, saw the color 

of each picture I create. 

 

Quiet pictures, women with deep eyes, 

like the streets of Mexico, simple and distant, 

a memory on shiny paper.

 

Happy memory where no voice was accepted,

because I did not speak the language. One smile 

meant hello, and children laughed. 

 

One baby stopped crying when she held my hair.

I wished I was her mother, so she would not

have to share her crib. 

 

Each little game of patty-cakes captured, hands 

decorated with beads, chipped 

red polish in a picture.  

 

I love my quiet. An ever-whirring 

mind dreaming in memory, working

on stopped time.