Glasslike figures rest upon
the table long and flat.
Its dusty borders gather still,
the figures, this and that;
As shining, sunbeams play upon
the glass, the tabletop,
Reflecting and refracting there
until the sun has stopped.
Bereft and left in darkness,
into the nighttime came,
The cooling, sightless countenance
of dark and nightfall's gain;
Until the sun soon rose once more,
upon the lovely scene.
Dancing in the glassy dress
of all, each figurine.
But, bringing with it dust which fell
and settled in their swirl,
Draping, destroying, and threatening
the existence of this world;
Until the mighty master
of this glass and dusty land
Thoughtlessly, began to draw,
the inkling of a plan.
He would sweep the table clean,
removing all the dust.
Alas! My friends but, he forgot,
how fragile, glass will bust!
And in his efforts to wash away
the uncomely, bits of air,
He wiped from off his table top
the glass, he wished to care.
For figurines are gentle breaths
that break when knocked or hit
And once their glass is shattered,
why they break from piece to bit.
And lying all o'er the floor,
the fragile pretty glass
Is but, the broken, empty thrust
of one man's misguided pass!
By Linda A. Copp
©April 15, 1970