THE SOUNDNESS OF BROKEN PIECES
In the summer of my 45th year
I learned that love was no rubber band force
to ply its tensile strength so far,
and no farther
But a Rutherford ray shot by God
Or perhaps God is Rutherford,
For we were certainly two atoms,
contained within the sheltering circle of I
Until, the shattering complete,
our scattered pieces flew to new orbits.
Before I caught breath to search and reclaim
they landed, not whole in new settings
like a black backdropped gem
But splintered in a mosaic of we
The colors in their broken glints
reducing portraits of my past
to bare white walls. It was summer,
in the autumn of our lives. Now come, winter,
leave your snowflakes, your perfect broken pieces.
We are not afraid.