A curving staircase banister sweeps down
a silhouette against a daylit window.
Curves, straight lines,
two dimensions as in a drawing.
On either side
a reflection moving back into space
adds a third dimension.
But also moving back in time
it adds a fourth dimension.
A reflection that reveals
small shelves with bottles
and demitasse China coffee cups.
A recollection, “time”
for she is long gone.
The glass pane separating
in and out
holds the hazy reflection
of newborn leaves
against a luminescent sky.
If I pulled the sun bleached yellow curtains,
that I know are there but that I cannot see,
the reflection would disappear.
If I turned on the light inside,
the reflection would be chased away.
If I waited, night
would swallow up
what is outside,
I know what is inside,
and here they merge the one into the other.
I see the reflected scene but not
the reality behind it.
An open window reveals
nothing of where, physically, we are inside.
Closed, it gives us a view
of the world we temporarily inhabit.
A diaphragm between that outer world
and a fragment of the reality
of the person viewing.