The Fleeting Sketch of Glass

On the cold frame of wakefulness
a tepid breath settles,
not a lament, not a mesh,
but an invisible dewy canvas.
Then slow drops, almost a wait,
draw worlds without sound,
a forest, an ignited expanse,
before the sun lifts its throne.

Every trace, a path never trod,
a brief veil, a breath halfway,
no memory, no silent oath,
only an instant of pure freedom.
Without goal, without inner will,
it forms and fades, pure apparition,
a brief winter on the eternal crystal,
a silent, aqueous reflection.