Because glass is more liquid than solid, because
this pane, made more than a hundred years ago, ripples
and bubbles, the prosody of its movement is like an epaulet
of stars shimmering on a night in August when the first
cool air is smuggled over the border and our vision
of what we thought was the unchanging world
grown fat with melons and the reddest peppers
runs floorward as we spy our father strolling
among the grape arbor, dreaming of the first hard frost
and the dark fruit that will turn sweeter as the vine withers.
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