The Looking Glass

I stared into a looking glass, beside my bedroom table;

The table held up, maple, but the looking glass was able-

To make me ponder things and kings, queens and all their garments-

To make me see beyond my dreams and into a glass enchantment.

It startled me to wake up to see the looking glass behaving-

This way on this day, in this odd way, not quite what I planning-

For on most days, and in most days, I was growing old and disabled-

But on this day, of all the days, it was a looking glass, not bowl nor table.

Pondering the sudden change, I had a spark of insight-

Of someone who told me years ago of bowls that change at night-

And not any night, no, it was really not too often-

For you too had to change on that night to make the colors soften.

The vision grew clearer of what he had said-

We were sitting at a table-

A bowl was placed between bread and space-

And fine flowers all dressed in red.

He said to me, upon this night, he really grew with wonder-

I asked him why, and his reply, was really like no other:

“Look at this bowl, these roses, these placemats and these chairs that stand before us-

Sure they’re there, but do they care, and can they tell we’re here, amidst them?”

“My father used to say to me: Look beyond the looking glass,”

I couldn’t quite reply-

It made no sense to me what he was conveying and saying,

And so I said goodbye.

Then I recalled more of the story, and more of what was said;

And the bowl had become a looking glass, placed on maple near my bed;

“When you look into the looking glass, it acts as though a mirror,

And when you look close enough, straight through the rough, your life becomes much clearer.”

And so I rose and walked outside-

To light, almost blinding;

Though I can’t say I will forget-

The Looking Glass that night, unwinding.

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