Reflections In A Windowpane
As time moves ever forward on,
by Cheryl Swain Burbage
My thoughts turn inward once again.
And I see myself as I once was,
Reflected in the windowpane.
No more the falling snow I see,
The glass reveals a summer scene.
And a laughing child who never asked,
What life or love or time might mean.
But the summer darkened into fall,
The child became a woman grown.
Who sadly reaped the wintry harvest,
Which in the summer's warmth she'd sown.
How strange it feels to recall that warmth,
Here at my frost-etched windowpane.
And I turn from the glass and I wonder,
Will I ever be warm again?