The Mirror

I saw myself inside the glass upon a gray
and cloudy morn.  In there, I liked not what
the image was, alone and plain, and full of pain.
The glass I wished was not mirroring me, but that
it was instead a window.  Windows show what is
without, and there could you behold a friend and see
the things which they do find to give them joy.  Oh why
could I not have a window?  Pleasure isn’t within
my face.  My happiness is to be found in bright,
new, halcyon days; cut grass; young children playing out
along the streets, with ice cream dripping chocolate sauce
and riding bikes as fast as wind; in birds in flight;
in dogs that bark and chase a car for no sane cause
but that it runs within their ken and lets them blow
some energy; indeed, in these and many more
are reasons for my wish that this, my mirror was
instead a window that could show the world without
and not myself within.  Was not this woe, for now
in solitary straits I was now in?  This glass
could bring no love, no hope, no gift, no comfort, none.
But then off to the side I saw my spouse, returned
and smiling wide.  I was too sure that happiness
would be in front.  In truth, it sneaks behind and takes
us by surprise, unless we should be wise and have
a mirror in our homes, reflecting what we love.