selkie

held dearly,
through the burn of what is,
and a promise of what yet comes:

will this one soften,
into shades blown deeper
than a cello?
will it hang
in a window's arch,
unwinding into rainbows?
or unroll with pinions and primaries,
imagining sky-ways?

there is a kind of darling
lay dreaming in sand;
in whom the glass-maker
looks inside,
and through,
and on behind ...

maybe a selkie.
or the falcon.
or wild dog of india ...

always, though -
and magically -
there is the shape
of a heart.

an hour-glass
that breaks every minute,
seeing what comes next?