It takes a long, smooth stroke practiced carefully
over many years and made with one steady motion.
You do not really cut glass, you score its length
with a sharp, revolving wheel at the end of a tool
not much bigger than a pen-knife. Glass is liquid,
sleeping. The line you make goes through the sheet
like a wave through water, or a voice calling in a dream,
but calling only once. If the glazier knows how to work
without hesitation, glass begins to remember. Watch now
how he draws the line and taps the edge: the pieces
break apart like a book opened to a favorite passage.
Each time, what he finds is something already there.
In its waking state glass was fire once, and brightness.
All that becomes clear when you hold up the new pane.
First published in Yarrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem