There’s nothing
but glass between them.
He is on the inside,
she is on the outside.
She is on a ladder
leaning against
a wall of ivy.
He is standing on a sofa
teetering on the cushions.
Both are working toward
the center of the large pane
with their paper towels
and Wiindex in hand.
When their eyes meet
a coy smile ripples
across their faces.
They are like children
trying to contain a secret.
They cock and tilt
their heads into alignment.
In unison,
they slowly lean in,
and, with eyes wide open,
press their lips
against the glass.
They hold there
for a moment.
Or an eternity.
The windows of their souls
use the window
to whisper to one another.
Then slowly they pull back,
blinking, still smiling,
their faces are now
soft and clear.
Each sprays their side,
then rubs the glass
to clear away the moist,
supple signature
of their kiss.
Now, all the way back,
her eyes widen
and the blue of them,
already deep,
become bluer
and deeper than
any sky the sun
has shown its rays through.
Her lips begin to move.
She is saying something
to him. But he hears
nothing. She repeats it.
He watches
her more intently.
Beau…
ti…
ful
Beautiful! This is the word
he reads on her lips
through the large glass.
Her deliberate
and silent pronunciation
brings tears to his
clear, clean eyes. He says
the word back to her
—and those three syllables
ring through him
like the notes
chiming outside
inside the branches of
a nearby pinion tree.
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