Steve Klepetar

Mirror

This is not a mirror,
it’s not a lake

turned on its axis,
it’s not the sky

drained of color
on a winter’s day,

but a door
to a thousand

lakes, each one
spread out

beneath a ring
of pines,

a door to the sky
you can open to race

at the speed of light,
your body both

particle and wave,
drinking the milk of stars.

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Steve Klepetar agrees that “an aged man in but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick unless soul clap its hands and sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.”