That fire in the garden's an illusion—
the double of the fire that cheers this room.
Now standing at the window in between them,
I watch the spiked montbretia suddenly bloom
and guess the glass is telling me a lie. 
But no, the flames are there. I can't deny
the evidence presented to my eye. 
Only to my doubt can I appeal 
for news of what is false and what is real.

Copyright © 2010 by Anne Stevenson. Used by permission of the author.