Midway between two dark mahogany doors,
The wider one bearing a throw-lock,
The narrower with a classic key hole in its brass handle plate,
And both sparkling at hip level from faceted glass knobs,
Hangs a circular mirror embedded in the center of a blue ceramic platter,
Its lip glazed brown in irregular blotches.
The platter hangs not by wire from the mahogany picture rail,
Trimming the wall just below a gently coved ceiling,
But from a painted nail by a knotted leather thong,
The kind that might have held together a baseball mitt,
Gently floating the platter within a sky of light apricot stucco,
The flattened style, that resembles an accumulation of passing clouds, Jammed together into a zoo of nascent forms.
Look at the mirror itself and one sees a painting that is really a reflection,
Of the upper right half of a shallow alcove in the same apricot stucco, Bearing the upper right half of a transparent brown vase, with a large ear, And containing four long stemmed flowers that are not really flowers,
But some exotic pods, that must have been green, yellow and purple,
Until they all faded into variations of dry tan.
The alcove itself appears slightly dark because one side of the mirror glows
With reflected gold flame of a candle that is not really a flame,
But a light bulb, standing upright upon a white cylinder,
Connected to a loop of black iron and decorative base plate,
To form a sconce.
But even the glow in the mirror lives in relative shadow,
For a whiter light from somewhere beyond this scene,
Casts its shine over these classic lintels,
To illuminate the timeless bond between artisans,
Who reflect upon the pride of bygone ages,
And then create a sacred space,
Within any frame of human perception,
Such as between these two closed mahogany doors,
In a vacant house, awaiting a new owner.
Ken Shiovitz 10/2005