"mirrored glass"
A draft slips beneath the heavy cedar door,
neither a gale of the high peaks, nor a sigh
but it finds marrow.
Such bittersweet pivot,
this calibrator of pulse,
stirrer of ash in the hearth we left cold.
Like a sudden rain on dry eucalyptus,
I am undone again by what I cannot hold,
the joints of my fingers losing their grip
on mirrored glass.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 26th, 2026 06:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 79
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Kevin Hulme, Paul Bell, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments12
A quiet, beautiful piece about how even the smallest message can break open the doors we thought were sealed shut.
The images of ash, rain, and slipping glass carry the ache of memory returning when the heart is still learning how to hold on.
Thanks, Thomas. Love the threshold moment where something tiny as a draft triggers/opens something long-closed. Much appreciated read. 🙏🕊️
I have experience and fears of holding a pane of glass for fingers grow tired and slippery and it takes little for it to slip through them. That mirror that reflects oneself slipping through one's fingers. I read Thomas' comment and believe he is right about that draft that comes through the crack under the door. Its disturbance of the marrow distracts and brings back that ash left cold reviving life and the smell of it and the mirror drops. A fave my friend
Having been cut by shattering glass on several occasions in the span of my life, I totally get this. It actually can blur/shatter/splinter our sense of self and identity. A most well-received reading. Thanks dear friend. 🙏🕊️
You are most welcome my friend
glass and I never got on well my friend lol, good write
Glass is indeed a tricky neighbour, like fire and water. In late childhood I even began collecting glass and crystal figures, perhaps egged on by seeing the B&W film Glass Menagerie. It was also an act of brazen defiance to bridge that fear of glass.
Much enjoyed read, most welcome friend
Good write A.
Ella Boar ate some glass chandeliers. Thanks O. 🙏🕊️🤩
A fine write. Just when you think the Doors and Windows locked fast: That draught somehow gets in. It's like Poe's Beating Heart under the Floorboards.
There is a truth indeed that refuses to stay buried. And even with that there aren't any definitive facts about Poe and all we are left with are speculations. This review is so stunning that it leaves to poem quite open. Perhaps more is to come.
Death has reawoken, the secret deeply hidden revealed.
Strange how one word, one comment, picture is enough to bring back something we tried our best to bury deep.
A periscope rising from the depths, or perhaps in reverse...
Rik, what a deeply moving poem. This carries the quiet devastation of grief returning without warning...soft in its arrival, but absolute in its power. Beautiful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
We were trying to get some good films to sit through across the many money grabbing platforms available and it is astounding just how many in the repertoire are about grief in some form or cinematic treatment!
The imagery here is quite powerful. I am transported to an Australian house.I see the occupant struggling to keep warm by the fire.Always a joy to read your works compadre.Never let the candle go out
Aye, keep that fire burning! Even a home among the gum trees can turn cold and drafty. Thanks compadre. 🙏🕊️
The smallest things can bring wonder to our lives Rik.
Andy
Indeed they can! Thanks Andy🙏🏻🕊️
Also "undone again by what I cannot hold" and "stirrer of ash in the hearth we left cold" is brilliant.
Many thanks for that. Turns of phrase ca be like panning for gold🙏🏻🕊️
A brilliant piece that reveals how even the smallest draft can leave one open to doors one thought were well sealed, and be open to losing your grip
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