These colors you hate--in my hands I will
make them a new shape. Their cutting edges
do not fit perfectly, but I fill the gaps between them
and with a little pressing they will hold their place.
I reset and recast your shattered pieces,
broken things to tend.
I was unyielding and you broke me down
You snapped them with tender hands,
nothing smashing. You positioned my colors next
to yours, so complimentary; and patted them
in place--gentle setting.
You reformed and repositioned my fragmented pieces,
broken things you bend.
We are shards no glue can mend.
The mortar fuses us together
in floating patterns we could never
make alone, forming pictures from
old stones. We make scenes immortal.
Yes, broken things make beautiful mosaics.
