Window Mirrors

These growing beyonds.

blue sea under blue sky

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: 

Look, here.

***

The opening line references Marcel Proust’s recollection of the twin steeples of Martinville. 

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

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