Genesis

We are her, but obscured,
Made rosy by the light,
By the mist and vapors.
Dusted in purple shadow,
She is our image, only lovely;
Elegant swan to our plain duck.
She is a five-minute virtue,
Dissipating as quickly as the steam
That from her hands rises into the air
To fog the mirror planes of her face.
She breathes--
A puff of air, hot on cold,
Touching her pale fingers to the surface--
And in that rippled moment vanishes.
Gone. And let the routine take her place.