To Join With Gold

What is it, to be a broken thing? A glass, carelessly chipped on the edge of the sink; or a plate, smashed in anger. To be placed at the back of the kitchen shelf and forgotten, or swept out with the trash on Tuesday. Tender branches are ripped asunder all the time by force of wind and storm; made sudden stranger to the trunk and roots that once were all they knew. But humans are familiar; we can be damaged from misuse, too. Hearts and minds are fragile things, even more than brittle bones. "Careful" we whisper, ashamed, "do not cut yourself on my sharp ends" We bandage and hide our wounds away, terrified for the world to see. But the ancient Japanese knew that a shattered bowl can become art, if you accept and honor each crack and scar; lovingly traced with brilliant gold. An orphaned tree limb, itself, could become the paper bearing tender words to a lover far away; and so, find a way to fly. One day will we see: that we are not ruined, just matter reformed? Scar tissue knit finally over bone; careful stitchwork wrought by loving hands. Composed of healed fractures and patchwork hearts: forever changed but beautiful in newfound strength; capable of things never dreamt of before. Not whole, but something more.