Reflections on a Winter Afternoon

I touch the window glass. Cold. Inside, the air is warm, comfortable. It has rained all day and water has gathered in pools that reflect a gray, unbroken sky. There must be meaning somewhere. Perhaps hidden beneath what is reflected, unseen in the veneer of form, masked in the silence on which the raindrops write their soft sound on leaves. There must be meaning here, deep in the shadows, coded in the color of trees, the ferns, flowers and in the muted tones coated in the cloudy glaze of a watery afternoon. There must be something inherent here, alive within this patch of what I see and what my senses take in or there is nothing, nothing but a beauty born of chance, mechanical, relentless, mere decoration to a most exquisite lie.