I turned it over in my hand This broken piece Of self Traced the cracks Noted the gaps Counted the missing particles Now marking A pristine floor
A broom passed by Grabbing flecks that soiled This hallowed place.
Its bristles shush My shameful grief Watching In silence
I should have protested asked for time Told my story Before This piece of self Crumbled And I was left to mourn.
Alone Or so perceived
Untill Generous Silence Gave them back to me Cupped In recognition Bound tightly With the string of memories As I prayed
He gave no rebuke As bits poured into my hands Losing fragments Between hesitant fingers He helped me count the loss That again littered marble paths Highlighted against its wealth As human filth
He waited Cupping tears that spilled Adding his own to the soiled floor Besmirched in regrets as thick as aged blood
Patient He shushed the onlookers Ready to jeer the fallen
Then I was ready He pulled each speck to himself Dirtying his own hands to lift my loss Into his apron furled It was him who shook my remnant free Of any last dust It was my King who carried my shame Out the door And when returned Knowing it no more
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Out of the sustaining cycles of life, the water cycle is one of my favorites to think about.
Every drop in the ocean would once have been rain that every flip of a fin stirs, and every current shares with the whole earth.
The beauty of our word is memorizing.
I see intent and intricate planning in its design. This belief doesn’t make me afraid of science, as some people think of those who are religious. No, it lends me a joy as I contemplate the puzzle pieces.
But I am also a dreamer, not a scientist. Still, the thought of ‘what if’ pulls at my heart, maybe close to the same way as it would for my calculating brothers and sisters?
Hands outstretched Confession on quivering lips “I broke it.” Be it cup or figurine knocked upon the ground By careless elbows Compassion leaks from love itself Dripping into cracks as Helping hands hold the pieces together Waiting
Release is gradual Will it hold? Is it strong? In the cup of gentleness When it’s ready “It’s okay. We fixed it.” A young soul learns forgiveness And trust When asked to place the treasure Back home
There is a beauty like no other when it rains, each drop its own little world until it touches down.
What must it be like to be separate as you fall to be broken apart across pavement? Never ceasing to be what you are, but to have your world change so drastically as you slide down hill, finding a crack and joining the soil. Remaining what you are, but also changing.
What must it be like to touch down upon the sea and join an uncountable multitude of life? Something with sound and molecules invisible and unheard by the human world?
That fall, that union, vital to our existence. Without it? We wither.
Each single drop, so important. But alone, never enough.
Only embracing togetherness of different kinds does water nourish life.