Seeming as though years, fortnight taut long.
	Raindrops descending the drawn face of the window pane -
	a sad moment... only because I'm in a tearful mood staring
	out imperfect glass: a frozen sea of still undulations, shielding.
	Rural yard green with grass, trees seen
	pinched and slipping like mercury through an hour glass;
	bowed and smeared under refractions of transparent mounds and gullies
	as I sway side to side.
	Following the rain soaked lawn sliding downward slope
	to the drive that cuts a part like a lean devotee prostrate
	on a busy sidewalk
	toward the transcendent everywhere else...
	away from here.
	Over his shoulder I look, but could never hope to see,
	for I foolishly search the direction he's lain,
	as if to peer through something more sublime than a window.
	Staring, I am finally called to
	kettle pot boiling strong, settle
	to steaming bath for soaking the spicy little pocket that soothes and tingles
	so willingly my belly and imagination,
	and the blood which runs life throughout, marking the terrain to be mapped.
Copyright 2000 John Feissel. All rights reserved.