Break

Sometimes I feel like a twig
On yesteryear’s dying sprig
And I think, “How much can it take?”
“What happens if this twig breaks?”

But then as I look around
At the sights and the sounds
At the stranger in a throng
At the painting angled wrong
At the false notes when I sing
And the broken-promise-ring;
I realise we are all broken things.

The wall is broken by the window
The light breaks the shadows
The door often breaks my room
A friendly ear breaks the gloom.

Self, broken by a mirror’s reflection
Heart, broken by fear of rejection
Mind, broken by a need for perfection
Body, broken by youth’s diminution.

But is it so bad, the act of breaking?
Not when it is followed by remaking.
See the branched cracks in a once-broken ring,
And crack a smile at the beauty of broken things.