My Glass My Canvas

I stare out from my window

On a drenched summer morning,

I press my face into the glass

To smell the rain through it

And feel the cold, tiny drops.

But my breath hinders my sight

A misty wall across my eyes

I raise a finger and draw a face

I draw a mountain and draw myself

And wipe it all clean- to draw again.

 

For creativity dictates- Even a wiper

On the glass may be a brush to an artist.