Though all my life I’ve tried to keep things whole,
now I see that broken can be beautiful.
I take the shattered cup, the limbless doll,
gather the pieces’ inscrutable
harvest. I do not weep for the wasted spell, the vow
undone. No tears can soothe the sea, arrest
the waves unmaking the hull and bow
of our small ship. I cull the quiet blessing
of broken light that spills into the dusk
through blood-red air, pool of night
a heart to comfort hope, the husk
of day. I bear the wish with age contrite,
and lay it not before the god of whole,
but of the broken, here as dutiful.