Meaning the lens through which the light could come.
Some doorway inviting passage, or at least reflection.
Now I want to touch the crackly paper, unroll it so it’s flat upon the table.
Blueprint of rooms that carpenters might translate into stone, light, glass.
The sheen of wood under my heel.
Do I dare to fit the keys into their sockets?
How much for a handful of nails, a trowel, a stanza of bricks?
A nautilus is a poem fished out of water, its halls filled with cantilevered dreams.
Grass blades weighed down by rain calculate the distance their bright missiles will travel.
Poise of a pencil before the cross-hatched stroke.
Here we are on the threshold of summer—
It is only the shortest night of the year.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.