Gossamer Wings

I stand at a stove to watch a pot until it boils,

I muse at the obvious, yet it happens in its own time.

Four cups of water, measured carefully, find and release tiny bubbles as it succumbs to the heat.

One cup of sugar and my masterpiece is almost done.

A gentle stir and it clarifies, as the simmer begins, I cut the heat denying it the fury of its wrath.

As the brew cools gently, I wash the vessel by hand.

I gently disassemble the brightly colored delicate flower made of glass, water as hot as I can stand it from the faucet flows, rendering the once sticky container fresh and clean.

Reassembled now it waits for the liquid to cool. I busy myself anxious for it to be so.

I find myself now watching a pot as the process reverses, and discover it will also happen in its own time.

Long enough. Into the crystal chamber of ruby red I pour enough of the brew to present to the fair maiden who awaits me.

I approach the staff upon which I will hang the fruits of my labor. Doves are released into the air upon my approach. I smile, knowing they will return. They always do.

The sun shines on this flower made of glass red as a ruby, and it sparkles in my eye.

I know she will be pleased, yet I must leave before she arrives.

I return to my chair in the chamber at the back of the house and wait. Looking out of the window I see the doves have returned, puffed out and wings flapping, indignant at having been interrupted in their pecking.

Sparrows gather to squabble over what the doves have dropped in their careless efforts.

With a passive eye I watch the bickering and flapping as I wait.

I am not kept waiting for long. Small, delicate, graceful and fast. She arrives so suddenly and then stops in midair. She turns her back on the frenzy of the doves and sparrows and floats to the opening of the polished glass. Tiny wings beat so fast they are like a mirage. Deciding to sit this time she grips the perch with tiny feet and sips from the glass flower, tasting my newest batch.

Delighted she drinks her fill, then rising up comes to the window and looks in at me in my chair. Hovering she turns from side to side as if to show her gratitude. Then suddenly she is gone. Where does she go in such a hurry? I know she will return a dozen times or more this day. Some times for a sip, or to take her fill, she knows it will be there, and I am a good cook. I see her sometimes sampling from the flowers around the yard, but she always returns to the flower made of glass, and for a peek inside my window.