This afternoon, after work, I broke and rebuilt a wine glass for you, Dear
I clipped the table with my hip
and as the wine glass spun a breeze blew through the window,
a cold April rain-coming wind
the sort born from sunlight that's not yet strong enough
when everything is green buds and the threat of frost,
The glass tipped off the table and traced a parabola to the hardwood,
which gave in to inertia and bent
bowed like a servant shuffling backwards from the master
and allowed the slightest mark to remain to remind me of the arc,
defined the difference between the good path miswalked and mistake.
The glass splintered and froze
for its impossible moment showed a thousand fine lines,
like the county roads twisting back to our house through the fresh-tilled fields
like the contour lines of the hills running down to the lake
like your wedding dress lace,
I seized that moment and framed it
traced the glints as gravity released shards, fragments and grains
collected them all and with the stem as my keystone
put them back in painstaking place as the breeze held its breath
and April looked on with skies promising rain.
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