SACRED SHARDS

So little and so much stirs in the pot of creativity

That a silver spoon swirling the primordial soup

Drags from its depths, bits and pieces of flotsam,

Fragmented thought, Sacred shards of gilded mirrors

reflected light held trapped in stars for decades

So great and yet so small are it’s influences, it’s attempts

to reshape the present with the debris of recollection

floating in continuous loop around the churning broth

Scattered visions of icy stalactites, that mask within its core

the constant outpourings from a book of memoirs

So brief and yet eternal, the little drops of shattered glass

that stay after the bigger pieces have been swept away

The edges sharp and smooth, they bite but do not bleed

Beautiful crystalline thoughts that span an ever widening gulf

forming a narrow bridge between here and hereafter

So immeasurable yet minuscule, the smell of rain after a shower

the growth of new shoots, the arms of ever spreading bounty

that keeps safe within its ever changing epicenter

the pulse of what will always be sacrosanct

Sacred shards of gilded mirrors observed from an ancient window