It's a sort of aching

We share.

Questions of

Our mortality

Blow in the wind, 

Behind our windowpanes.

Windowpanes that have become our spectacles as

We observe

What we cannot change

And struggle to recognize

What we cannot see.

But we are not fully divided in

Our isolation.

The human spirit calls to

Us.

She sings, her hair rustling

In the trees.

Calling

Past our open windows,

She's stitched together in

Our kitchens.

And communicated

On our Tv's

Our Computers.

We as man and womankind are now somewhat

Divided.

But nevertheless,

Together we stand.