glass storm

“Perhaps I am meant to drown after all. But if I do, then at least it will have been by my own hand.” ― C.E. McGill, Our Hideous Progeny

Jan 15, 2026

[cover is from “Abstract Painting with Blue and Green Colors” by Ann Sciot]

This next post in the Cherry-inspired series is all about glassy surfaces. What you see is hardly ever an accurate rendition of reality.

The first poem is a short dive into cold, clear waters. Nothing more than a moment of wonder at how suddenly beautiful beginnings end. Then, “through the looking glass” descends into a fever dream sequence, twisting and turning, but ultimately referring to a world of things we see in the mirror. Lastly, the closing poem talks about how the translucence of glass can make it into the cruelest prison. Is it better to stay behind concrete walls, and never know what you are missing, or to have everything you want just outside your reach, knowing you will never get it?

Glass Storm 1 2 3 4 5

HD 189733 b is an exoplanet approximately 63 light-years from Earth. This distant planet gets its cobalt blue color from a hot, hazy atmosphere containing clouds laced with glass. Its winds blow at seven times the speed of sound, whipping all would-be travelers in a sickening spiral around the planet. And getting caught in the rain on this planet is more than an inconvenience; it’s death by a thousand cuts. Literally. On this planet, it rains glass — sideways. The planet is about the size of Jupiter and takes about 2 Earth days to complete its orbit.

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mornings by the creek

the spell of the morning
lifts
with the fog
and I let the icy rapids
jolt me back to life

through the looking glass

I get lost in the hall of mirrors, echoing back at me the hoarse voice, leaving the shards of my soul. A ripple. The clinking of a crystal suncatcher, trembling at the touch of a warm gust of wind. The color of clouds in November.

This film loops around itself: my very own yellow brick road, leading me down another spiral whose end I cannot see. And the pull. The brusque tug to the middle. There is an unseen chain — a binding force, holding me here.

The chamber is spinning me around on its tight strings like a marionette. I tilt my head, and bow, and sway, and the aching floorboards let out long creaks, applauding. Maybe another would tell you it smells like oak, or pine, or cherrywood. Old and undusted, but unmistakable. I don’t recall the forest smelling like anything but wet earth and fear, iron-bitter.

There’s blood in my mouth. Whose, I do not know.

There is a shine, too, in the storm of sharp glass. The cavernous ceiling breaks, and looking down at my snow-globe self, an unblinking eye becomes sky. It’s bigger than the millions of copies flinging themselves at me, but the same in every other way. The impossibility of denying the truth is gnawing at your bones - what do you do with it?

I look down at the odd puzzle pieces. Not one of them fits with another, not in my hands, using the wrong kind of grip on any soft thing. You can shake your head and keep your eyes shut tight, but the form of the firmament remains. And under the thundering skies, the shivering shape of you tries to unscramble itself from the glass storm.

Unscathed or not, there is always an exit.

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apartment window

The glass that domes the jar that holds the spider trapped
The glass that flies buzz headfirst into when they’ve snapped
The glass that smallest sparrows and sweet nightingales hit
The glass that makes the borders to freedoms that I've quit