Mosaics

I took a walk in the late Summer’s sun

Hair pulled back in a wispy bun

Beneath my feet, a broken sound

Pieces strewn along the ground

I knelt to pluck a shapely shard

Etched in blue, jagged and hard

Beside it lie a ceramic stone

Of yellow tea cup, tossed and alone

On roads of past enameled glories

Colored seeds tell kitchen stories

My sons and I, we pick them up

A flowered pot, a shattered cup

Relics chosen, ideas indulging

We climb a hill, our pockets bulging

For broken pieces, odd and forgot

Make glorious art that can’t be bought

Or copied or stamped or reproduced

No, mosaics live when the mind is loosed

We’ll mix corn flour, bicarb and water

Press treasures in, prismatic fodder

Shapes and colors wedged and fitted

Meandering stories, mismatch permitted

Synthesis from the cracked and tossed

The dusty, forgotten, trampled and lost

When fitted together by loving hands

Make art that only the broken can