Pressing Forward

Where I am
is standing still,
facing forward.

A seeming windowpane
separates me from 
the next place I should be:

I poke it with a single finger
then press on it with first one
and then both hands.

It bends, does not break,
warps and distorts but
will not allow me 
entrance

but I keep pushing…
it’s sad, or it feels
sad. It’s not sad
in fact, it is just a matter of
fact that

it takes a long time
for such a barrier to yield
and one must push
and push and sometimes 

kick 
to break it. To break it
and step through

to the new life that I think
will seem not much different
at first — it looks much the same
over there, but that light…

imagine
how my familiar things
may look in that light:

some dingy,
some more lovely, some
likely revealed as utterly
not what they once seemed.

For all that may be possible
over there

I keep pressing, poking,
gently, strongly; I keep 
pressing forward.