Glass Beads

Or, less quaint, raindrops hanging on leaf tips
of bamboo.

With magnifying glass, each bead is huge,

a perfect globe of an overturned world
bright with trees,

houses, my neighbor’s parked car, parted clouds,
all reversed,

all temporal now that the sun warms them
this morning.

Give these light-filled planets one more hour
to glimmer,

if in no other way than in the words I’ve picked
to preserve

their glassy beauty on this winter night.
We’re beyond

that spent hour in a far April. Forecast:
trace of snow.

Now: sharp clear sky, an ornate quilt of stars.
Those drifting

ice grains have ferried me back to that far
bright April,

those bejeweled sun-struck glisters on bamboo.
I recall

I rummaged high and low, emptying all
the desk drawers

for the scratched, thrift store magnifying glass.
I wanted

to see inside, up-close, the brilliance of
light drying,

to observe, first-hand, time in the process
of dying.