The Breathing of Glass
I take the straw and molten ball to my lips, reverent
in pause. Knowingly, I take the air in, and breathe.
I blow. The molten ball willingly accepts me, growing only
to the touch of my breath,
gentle, this moment of conception.
Taking the birthed glass, carefully I carve my story into
words and pictures from my mind precise,
accepted eagerly, sharing our message,
becoming the glass.
I gather pieces and remnants of glass,
brushing on the colors of me,
each piece shading and reflecting, painting the scene of my heart.
Pieces puzzling together, each selected and placed,
creating our whole and art.
Using my glass, my life and movements leave
marks upon my glass,
no longer clean and clear. I mar.
Scratching upon the glass, my impression,
leaving this residue of me.
I am not careful,
leaving it precarious.
And in my carelessness,
Foolishly or intentionally, I toss or drop my glass. Shattering
our breath, our words, our colors, a pile of mismatched shards
to be swept up and tossed.
There is no glue for glass.
And the floor gasps.
Heather M. Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist, recently nominated for the Pushcart Award, published in the Orange Room, Boston Literary Review, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Quarterly, Red Fez, Electric Windmill, Apeiron, The Lake, Knot, mad swirl. Red Dashboard published two collections: Directions of Folding and Altar Call of Trumpets. www.thehealedheart.net