Within my room is a door to the outside world.
Upon the square, quartered panes of glass, the frost is melting.
Small confined droplets of water, reflecting nighttime light,
Yet the back ground is inky black.
I think of a dress, a gown low upon my shoulders tight upon my waist
Glowing as those panes of glass glow now.
A night soft and warm, tinkling crystal, hothouse flowers, low murmurs
Of admiration.
A lover’s pride and later passion.
The first droplet has gone, smearing the glass into darkness
And now the glass, as the dress,
Faces morning’s focusing light.
The dress packed carefully away and then in the way,
As all things man made.
Representatives of night’s sparkle cannot change
But the light and sparkle on my window pane
Exists to change and remain.
Passion and man move on and my room
It sighs, quiet and observing.
I have become stone cold.
I am observation and scorn.
I am impervious.
You cannot break what is broken.
The droplets that release a world of forgetfulness
We do not sparkle we do not dazzle.
Thank God, Thank God.