An old problem: how to phrase
the far-away steeples.
How to abandon a conversation
made of one part memory
and the other projection?
Which time is it now, the world
of memory or the procession
of days marching to the iron-fisted clock?
What grows beyond the window over there,
and who has a mirror?
Let’s shine it by the opening buds, a signal
to ourselves and our aboves:
The opening line references Marcel Proust’s recollection of the twin steeples of Martinville.
5 thoughts on “Window Mirrors”
this is a lovely poem, Stacey. thanks for sharing 🙂
Thank you so much for being here, Savi!
Love the “days marching to the iron-fisted clock” Great work!
Thank you for this, Bartholomew. So glad you are here : )
Stunning and moving