All Vermeer

We are all Vermeer.
What I mean is sit by this window.
Write. There’s still time.
No end to invented light.
Those cherries are your ticket.
That frozen lake. Listen.
As hours kill, chimes make fireworks.
Even though six state birds
have flown the coop,
Pluto turns out to be a moon,
and the new ballyhooed cure
a fake. Even if your mirror’s
a dead end and rumors
about the human animal are true.
Make no mistake. Even then
you are Vermeer.

(Published in Phoebe)