History of Glass

I found a treasure lode of antique
glass in the cow pasture
where my grandparents and their parents
had dumped them over many years.
Old green and brown medicine bottles, blue glass,
fence post knobs. What the cows hadn't crushed,
I broke with stones.

Later, I punched a college window
after eating the worm in a mescal
bottle. Dramatic hubris.
Two scars on my hand
are the signature of glass
for my sin of broken desires.

I now touch glass gently with fingers
as a sign of trust. I know the pane
won't shatter without pressure,
the world beyond won't disappear
without reason.

I'm glad the soul isn't glass.
When it's broken it's hard to fix.
Even cleaning glass can be hard.
Newspapers and ammonia are best.

(c) copyright Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.