I dream the way
a tiny green tree frog
with silky-wet fingers
climbs a moist window
in the rainy dark,

a window that reflects
both light and shadow,
joy and sorrow —

an eye without a lid
that looks back at me
when I step closer to see myself,
or all that matters of myself:

a pastel ghost,
and then my brave, true flesh,
roll after roll of hills behind me,
and forests before me,
where everything I do matters,

but leaves no mark
beyond the slim, damp, frog-print
written on fire-forged glass —

glass so clear
it could be water, air,
or life’s breath.