It started with a shattering; just outside the open door
of the room of glass.
His blown-glass jar had been knocked off the ledge,
and the creation–scattered into billions.

The-one-who-broke-the-glass grinned
and got a birch broom to whisk it all away,
saying, “I’ll take the pieces and cast them out
before they slice you like a horned snake
that bites the horse’s heel.”

The gaffer stooped down in the dirt,
and gathered several filthy from the heap.
He cut his fingers as they closed around
the sharp, silver edges in the sea of glass.

He took the broken to his house.

The gently sparkling specks dissolved
with his blood and other broken bits.
The batch, he floated to a window pane
and set inside a stone.
Each time he came close,
he recognized his dim reflection.