Broken, a mirror reflects
light that strikes its many
surfaces as well as the unmarred.
Women will gather up the shards,
file their edges smooth and anchor them,
embroidering along the hems of garments
these bits of sun, of tarnished sparkle.
And what of fallen flowers? They might
never be returned to the branch,
yet see how the wind,
the birds conspire to play,
make bids for immortality.
In response to Via Negativa: Leaving.