A Mirror for the Sill

Midday glare returned, washing across the sill. I looked past the clay pot to the dusty sash where a broken shard of pocket mirror rested faceup. I paused, letting my plush thumbs test its blunt edge. Slow... gentle lift. Using both long arms, I propped the reflective square against the wooden frame, angled backward into the wall's dark recess. Instead of heat falling onto the three small leaves, a silent rectangle of sky bounced harmlessly onto the ceiling timber above. Sheltered in the steady shade, the shoot does not move.