Temper rising, she becomes a blur of business,
works at glass and frame, vents a blast of angry wings
in search of phantom gaps or phased matter.

Close outside, snapdragons sway encouragingly,
zinnias gesture from plastic boxes beyond the window,
rays of light refract, reflect and raise the stakes.

Frustration takes her; she begins to butt the pane,
anguish as real as the vibrations bounced
off this double-glazed sound board.

But rail as she might against the unseen,
against the barrier between her and home,
she cannot cross this hidden veil to the other side.

And me, I see beyond a peevish bee
my mother leathering the window,
complaining of muck and dust and dry weather.