I sat with my reflection, tired, alone.
The glass, unkind, gave little comfort back.
Each flaw unrolled—like some familiar map.
Still, the journey seemed one only mine.
But then the window, wide, bright, intact,
spoke louder than the polished mirror’s glare.
Outside, life moved—an indelible chorus
singing back my secrets with gentle hands.
Leaning closer, I saw a beckoning there—
a figure waving in the wheat fields, clear.
Not judgment, but welcome radiated forth,
their shadow brushing my reluctant mind.
And from above, a quiet cloudless voice:
only in twos do truths find their own path.
The mirror never tells the whole of it—
the window always opens to helping hands.