Broken Cup

Some teacups break
They shatter against the floor.
The shards scatter into slivers 
And their form is no more. 

Glue will not mend.
The damage is too far gone. 
Its once-beautiful pattern 
Will never come to live on. 

The pieces are swept 
And slowly pushed here and there. 
Until someone takes them 
And gently scoops them with care. 

He takes them in his hand 
And begins to crush each one. 
Their edges don’t wound- 
His scars give protection.

Slowly the pieces turn to dust. 
Pigments of colors spread around.
They begin to be scattered 
Until a new image is found. 

New beauty emerges 
from the dust of the pieces.
A small bit of hope 
Slowly grows and increases. 

His hands move deliberately, 
With gentle words spoken,
For this potter will never leave
His own handiwork broken.