And now I should write of glass

For my mother

And perhaps in this season
we are meant to be raised
by constant heat, some water
from the heavens, a
sprinkling. The sun burns
through glass onto tiles 
and seduces. Our tendrils
drift, our senses alert, our 
molecules rearrange, coalesce.

To step outside our glass walls
is to court discouragement.
Hormones cringe, our fingers
curl like ice-burnt leaves
feet turn like roots to earth's
core, seeking that heat, suffering
the withdrawal of it. There is
no comfort in frost, frail chilled
air, death from exposure.

We thank the glass for its
illusion of generosity, settle in
to a winter that we will not 
allow to diminish us.