Trust.
It begins as a vessel of crystal and light,
A holding of warmth in the quiet of night.
So flawless and clear, so securely held fast,
A promise of truth that was meant to last.
Then a sudden blow falls, and the universe cracks—
A sharp indiscretion, a turning of backs.
The structure gives way with a chilling sound,
And the pieces are scattered all over the ground.
With patience and care, we can gather the shards,
With the glue of forgiveness and penitent guards,
We press them together, we smooth out the line,
And pretend it is back to the way it was fine.
And the vessel will hold, it can water the flowers,
It can weather the seasons and tick through the hours.
It heals, yes, it heals—it can carry its load,
Though the pressure is heavy and treacherous the road.
Yet no matter the mending, no matter the art,
The light never passes the very same part.
For the scars are the map of a wound that is past,
And a glass, once it shatters, is altered at last.