by Thomas Davis
To Mildred Hart Shaw and Paul Pletka
A sherry in her hand, surrounded by
the books that filled the room from floor to ceiling,
she watched the young man, self-absorbed, apply
a tiny brush to lead-framed glass, a feeling
of richness emanating from a scene
of large-eared rabbits sitting in the snow
beside a gully, mountains rising white, pristine,
into a winter sky that almost glowed.
The glass had traveled west a hundred years ago
strapped in a wagon pulled by two huge horses.
“That’s good,” she said. “It has a Christmas glow.
No rivers, but it sets the rivers in their courses.”
“A Christmas door,” he said. “It’s here, but then
you’ll wipe it clean to make it just a door again.”