Mosaic

She’s broken the teacups,
The bowls and the plates,
She’s shattered tureens,
The saucers, a vase.

The pieces are sorted
By color and shape.
She now stands before them
To try and create
Something new with her life
With china and clay.

There are browns and creams
Of the warm, happy days,
Greens for the summers
When love was ablaze,
Black shards of anger,
fear and pain,
And grays for sorrow,
heartache and rain.

The decades of  living
Of growing and giving
Of loving and dreaming
Of trusting and grieving…
Her plans for the future,
Her ideas of the past,
Now lie in piles
Of broken glass.

She looks at the browns,
The greens and the grays,
The ivory and tan …
Then turns her gaze
To the yellows and pinks,
Purples and blues
The beckoning hues
Of what she feels and thinks,

And she wonders if these pieces,
The new and the old, can mesh,
Can be married and whole.
The edges are jagged
Where they used to be smooth.
Fractured dish patterns
Of what seemed to be truth.

She’s afraid there’s no glue
That can bind all this glass
Into something that reconciles
Her future and past.

She chooses a pot
Of sturdy red clay,
A place to plant flowers
For a new summer day.

She takes a deep breath,
The glue now in place,
She picks up a shard
And begins to create.

Lynne Thompson
(c) 1999