My window-pane

There was a crack in my window-pane, about the length of a pencil crayon. On wild nights the wind would blow it like a penny-whistle. On summer days the sun would joyfully parade glints of light through it’s centre. In my odd way i loved that crack. It gave the sky a voice; made space for the outside to speak poetry to the inside. Without it, i would have been obliviously isolated; unchanged by the fierce storms, untouched by the streaks of light. This broken pane was a bridge; a pathway that joined two places; it was necessary.