BY MARK THOMAS
Copyright is held by the author.
I saw you touch the window
with careless fingertips
and I knew the glass was telling you lies,
outrageous lies about sand.
With a glint of light,
the pane would whisper,
that it wasn’t always crystal;
that its elemental particles once
danced happily about the base of a minaret
wrapping those stones in a spiral embrace,
the exuberance of collective freedom
overpowering the sounds of prayer.
And later, the glass would say,
those same grains
heaped themselves against the opening of a pyramid
sealing thieves inside to die with the treasures
they could not steal.
Then, summoned by the wind, they flew onward
And burnished scimitars that flashed in the sun
terrifying lesser hearts (like mine.)
I knew that the glass,
full of ridiculous pride,
would explain how each
polished mineral fleck traveled the world,
exploring the mysteries of time;
and that, finally,
the grains allowed themselves
to be gathered up,
to be heated and forged
into that marvellous transparent pane
that you look through now,
like you look through me.
