WINDOW OR MIRROR?
An afternoon in March.
Hillocks of dead grass, edges greening --
impossible sand, improbable longing;
Here is an artificial lake, a young boy
probing the edge with a stick,
Here is a sky hovering just overhead
a cloudless day hanging around in bed
and then, to remember the kiss
that first, breathless kiss
my heart pounds,
feet on an iron stairwell
rattling metal, clanging veins –
the psychological burden of exile
until that glorious moment
night sky now, ravishing just overhead
a bright night, splashing just over my head
a thousand pinpoints of light
like green shoots of grass, new
but just barely, and so sweet --
Like an afternoon in March.
susan smith nash
march 17, 2002