Wet Windows

A quivering web of jewels,
my window lights up
as the earth rises
after a rainstorm,
spinning sunlit tendrils
that shimmer and slide,
finding and blinding
by looking too long
into the light.

The drops become
splotches on the page,
a dance of make-believe
burnt onto my eyes,
strange patterns in
all the parts I
do not look at.

Every time I read
it seems a different play,
different gems swish,
teardrop fish in
changing light
until its not words,
but sight
which makes the poem,
refracted by wet windows
and a passing, wistful wish.