Peer through the binoculars, observe the steady
gray rain and the wrought iron bench, the stone
wall that has borne witness to a thousand days
(maybe more)
and will continue to stand upon
the grass that has grown and withered away
several times over since that distant evening
(vesper, vesperis)
when she looked in through the blown glass window
and saw the tiny hidden kingdom of
chocolate hugs and sunrise eyes.

Then a pebble was carried on the wind and struck
the window, not so hard that the pane shattered but
enough to dislodge a chip of molten sand
whose place was taken by a silvery spiderweb
like the ones that used to brush against her face,
ghostly tears on her walks through the woods
(silva, silvae).
That spider has long since died, cooked alive by
the rising sun peeking through hazy golden lashes.

The secret kingdom evaporated, misty through the
minuscule cracks that became gaping chasms the closer
you got to them. The scribbled words and the eye pencil
and squishy red fish, all rising out of their transparent
prison to land on the dry crunchy grass, dust of forever
coating stark curlicues and stone walks who stand,
keeping vigil now and into the night
(nox, noctis)
and ever after.