Ice at the Window
Midwinter closes. This afternoon's snow,
that melted in droplets on this surface
of frail glass, transfigures into ice.
From where I stand, outside, the hall light's glow
paints a refracted portrait of your face,
a palette of sadness, pain, of sacrifice.
Each frozen prism, ice lens, a cameo
of suffering, a Murano glass trace
of time wearing down these, our fragile lies.
And will this be how I remember you?
Face fading in unconsummated grace,
light failing - and I cannot see your eyes.
Shorn of season, the wind begins to blow.
Midwinter closes, and you watch me go.