I awoke from the wind last night.
Its long, silky fingers were just reaching through the cracked window,
then lifted my mother’s vase off the windowsill,
and threw it on the ground.
This was no dream; the sound was deafening.
I awoke with white and blue shards covering the old wooden floors.
Standing on a circle of moonlight with
bare toes and trembling legs,
I thought the hands had left,
but I was wrong:
With great care and concentration, they were observing
carefully, roamed the
hollow places in between them,
and, eventually, rearranged
At last, the moon laid its veil over the heirloom, healing it.
At last, the wind stopped.
Through perturbed blinks,
that the vase was now standing in the dark corner,
It didn’t want to stand by the window no more,
where the sunlight would
its fissures to the world,
which only ever knew to ridicule scars.
I could no longer sleep.
I could only wonder:
But would a flower ever blossom in that vase again,
in its dark corner?