If Glass Could Talk
for Jacque
If only all the tiny shards of glass
bottle brown
wine green
yellow and purple orchid swirls
could talk.
What would they say
if fragments realigned
knit themselves back together
like broken bones entwined in casts
and heroes walked?
What if the paralyzed
could miracle embrace
pain and grief
trauma and loss
till they walked with stars?
I breathe out Vincent’s starry night
from living room wall
to outside door
then coffee table book on my floor
I wonder – would he obsess about lost socks
from cyclone’s past?
(c) June Perkins, Words and Image
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