Poemsonacircle

I clean the window-pane,
outside there's rain.
The drops outside seem like dust.
In wiping, the pane becomes a polished mirror.
I see;
a windmill and my gaze follows its feathered wings.
My hand touches the glass
trying to catch them.
The flakes are mirroring the light,
but they're almost gone.
I ought to have blazing new window-panes,
see-through and light, tells me a voice inside.
But I like imperfect illusions of colors
in sight inside.
The feathers outside fly away, as in lay-spring.
I see them die away.
I need to clean
as I knead the clay for her, only more!