That fire in the garden's an illusion— the double of the fire that cheers this room. Now standing at the window in between them, I watch the spiked montbretia suddenly bloom and guess the glass is telling me a lie. But no, the flames are there. I can't deny the evidence presented to my eye. Only to my doubt can I appeal for news of what is false and what is real.
Copyright © 2010 by Anne Stevenson. Used by permission of the author.