by John Grey.
Broken dishes –
are they a good laugh or grief?
I love a woman who promised both
and kept her word.
So how do I adore the fragrance she wears today
and yet despise tomorrow’s?
I just accept them,
good or bad.
Same with the gifts.
Same with her family.
And all that’s happened.
And all that hasn’t.
How comforting it is
to never have to choose.
Dead flowers in a vase.
Clothes tossed recklessly across the floor.
But then there’s the feeling I get sometimes,
light and flowing,
like having wings.
I marvel at the passage of the years,
how none of it was rehearsal,
and everything that’s passed between us
could be kneaded, massaged,
until shaped like a heart –
a joy outside of reason.
It all comes down to
what I’m looking at now,
a floor full of shattered plates,
busted cups,
all knowing, all glowing,
with silken threads of sun.
No laugh. No grief.
Something else again.