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

so alone

so alone

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