I found a piece at the foot of the cherry tree.

Ever so slightly, the rounded worn tip peeked

out from the earth. The rest of it hid; nestled,

embedded and muddied by the soiled years.

 

I found a piece wedged in a concrete slab.

Buried deep in dust in a hairline crack.

I must have dropped it when I lost my fear

of the crane flies that danced drowsily

in arcs across the path.

 

I found a piece stored in the corner of the varnished frame.

Flush to the portraits flat back, pinned against the virgin wall,

trapped behind stained times. I must have saved it there,

when I fled from him, and raced up the stairs.

 

All these shards

scattered through

the years of the past.

I did not gather them up.

I did not reclaim them,

or take them in.

Nor did I devour them.

I left them there

in their shallow graves

where I alone

can grieve them.

I let them remain

and kept them safe;

like scars, like stains,

like sharpened bones

at home on secret,

sordid thrones.