Vanitas
If I grind the mirror to the flat
of a millpond caught in a spring
heatwave, still and unrippled -
can I keep what I have? Or must I
bend and swerve like a reed caught
in the glove of an autumn storm,
spent in the race to reach the sun -
its taunting pull: tall and fine,
the pure line drawn from the muds
of birth to the summer sky of dream,
thrown down by the tick of a cloud -
that moil of change? I've polished
this moment as keen as a betrothal
to any lover and no blemish remains
to offer me wintry lies, and still -
it slips beyond me: water and light.
If I grind the mirror to the flat
of a millpond caught in a spring
heatwave, still and unrippled -
can I keep what I have? Or must I
bend and swerve like a reed caught
in the glove of an autumn storm,
spent in the race to reach the sun -
its taunting pull: tall and fine,
the pure line drawn from the muds
of birth to the summer sky of dream,
thrown down by the tick of a cloud -
that moil of change? I've polished
this moment as keen as a betrothal
to any lover and no blemish remains
to offer me wintry lies, and still -
it slips beyond me: water and light.
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