The heat doesn’t frighten me.
Nor does the smell of melting glass
On exposed flesh.
We have all been burned.
In the end, it’s all just sand.
Add cobalt for blue, and gold for cranberry pink.
For green, my favorite, chromium
Or iron.
The shop is filled with spheres, some misshapen
Like the heads of unloved dolls
More colors, there are, than the big box of crayons
Even the shades of green
Are of greater variety than trees
In the new world.
At the end of a blowpipe, an orb
Forms, the fire
Glints off the artist’s eyes
Which shine with wonder
And pain.
“It won’t last,” he says. “Nothing is permanent.
“The stars aren’t forever.”
His gaze, as always,
Is fixed on the firmament.
I hear the sound of teeth gnashing
Angry feet crashing through the door
The orbs smashing, one-by-one
To the floor
“They die in darkness,” laments the vandal.
He hurls another orb.
Or maybe they die in the wrong kind of light.
He scoops up the shards, glues them together.
Fragile, they are. Full of edges
And angry scars.
“Better than before,” he insists. “Stronger.”
When I am shards
Do not glue me together.
Gather me, along with river-smoothed stones
And pinecones
And trash left-over from a well-lived life
And make a mosaic of me.
Shattered and new, full of secrets
I will reflect the light of the impermanent stars
Until I once again
Dissolve into sand.
