I see through my mirror--
reflection like a window
see myself
and that contained, simultaneously.
Shown to us can be all at once
what we want,
what we wish,
or that truth we shy from.
This speculum shows more than faces.

I move through my mirror
little finger first
like slipping on a glove one tip at a time
skimming up my arm
over my head
to glide down the small of my back
and finally encase my feet.
My eyes no longer fix upon the looking glass.

Mirror behind me,
a garden before me.
Each patch is unalike and distinct:
some desolate and dead
some vibrant and vivid
some struggling and straining
some maimed and mending
but one in silent pulse.
None relinquishing their secrets.

A wall closed it all in:
encompassing the garden
with ornate beauty on the outside
cracked, crumbling steadfastness on the in.
Nearly none could perceive the wall’s captive,
let alone their foot-fall leave mark upon it.
Many attempted the endeavor:
to glimpse its multiplicity
meet its caretaker,
peering into fissures
pleading a fracture into its gates
it still stifled its secrets.
No matter how kind the asking hands
how careful the wondering soul,
it silently trapped itself
clung, secure, its concealed mysteries.

No key had graced the lock in ages.
Lost in careless, neglecting hands,
the unwilling victim sealed into isolation
from someone who might have
nurtured,
sheltered,
and
kept
the garden.

Someone
the walls had no need to shut out.
Nor the garden shut in.