Reflections : Katherine J.

Dusky reflections of two (too?) tall
In blown glass panes
Peek inside rooms full of empty.
(Gingerbread houses are yummy but I’m not hungry anymore.)

Light tripping on a stairway of rooftops
One thousand miles of clapboard siding
(This is New England, after all.)

1812? You say old, I say young.
Lost? Not yet—
Just wandering a crooked path between perhapses.

Are we there yet?
(I thought it was right around the corner…)

Stop. Drop. Roll.
Jeans wet from evening’s sweaty palms
Arms cold from ocean’s whispering breath
(Your) Impenetrable façade
Contours catching shadows
(I can see the stars.)

Another question:
How do we get back to where we were before?