“How much of me lies beyond
the image the mirror grants?”
she confessed she often wondered—
“How high, how brief,
the span my life can reach?
For the glazing chill of glass
shows a portion, yet withholds—
the rest, asleep, concealed,
uncertain, poised between
what can seize time’s fleeting breath,
as in the mirror’s sudden frieze,
and what path lies polished for the eye.”
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