It is so easy to lose the obvious.
Stare through a mirror at one’s self
And neglect the glass for consciousness.
Chase within for that elusive elf
Which was conjured into being
Out of reflective surfaces of seeing.
But the glass, as fingertips will tell,
Limns the boundary of true extent
And that twisted ghost encased is no real shell
But mere light, deceived, ricocheted and bent
Which resounds down through mental corridors
To imprint now between afters and befores.
This now that flees on feet of seconds pattering
Is glimpsed in fleeting colors, clashing sounds,
Here, then gone, leaving echoes clattering,
Pursued by yelps of recall’s hounds,
Which, when we reflect and pause
Bring back our childhood in their jaws.