Under Glass

She awakes in the morning’s dim light
and prepares her shoulders to wear the day.
Fingers gently caress the tired lace
that hangs between the mellow eastern glow
and her world. 

On a sigh, she presses against 
the cool inviting smoothness  
as if to cling to some elusive ray of hope
but even cats cannot sink claws into glass, 
and she is but a woman.

Her eyes are drawn toward the horizon
where her heart rests like a setting sun,
its weather-beaten pieces tied together 
with gossamer threads as fine as spider silk,
bled with tears she never sheds.

And for yet another morning
she turns her back and steps into her life
like a shadow sliding behind the moon,
wearing shoes that never quite fit
but cannot be returned. 


 

july 2005