Tiny drops of rain fall against my study window,

Making roadmaps on six panes of glass and I

Consider them as one might consider faded lines

On yellowed parchment that speaks of places

Long forgotten by the likes of you or I.

I notice my reflection caught in one single pane,

A portrait laid against the charcoal-gray canopy

Of a tear-filled sky that seems to weep at my

Lack of understanding as to the lesson that

May be learned from a map writ by God.

And so I look away.

END

“Glass”