These mine eyes are the windows of my soul,
where you may think inside of me you look,
therein reading me as an open book,
in gazing outward lies my own true role.
Let me instead show you what then I see
when brushing clear old glass, old dust, old grime,
peering closely through layers left by time,
my village returns in pale broken light to me.
The splintered glass gives splintered view,
kaleidoscopic beasts both large and small
loom close, they share our lives with them
as crosses do, not one so high, but two,
side by side houses stand while people call,
splintered self remembering again.
note: all images used in this are in the public domain