Glass Archive

The morning light bends through the old window, carrying dust motes like preserved insects, each one suspended in their own amber moment.

The pane remembers every rain, every fingerprint of seasons— a negative space of all who looked through and away.

I trace the frost patterns, these temporary geometries that bloomed overnight, proof that even cold can be an artist.

By noon it's forgotten, melted into glass clarity, but the window knows it was beautiful.