When might goes astray amidst moderation and balance, broken circles make a sharp edge and force open reason's ice-cold eyes. Ah, potsherd aimed at unseeing love, I am barefoot now. I am flesh waiting to be slashed. A soul maturing since the wound is deep. A broken bowl becomes a blade.
Any broken thing becomes a blade.
Music When their leaves have fallen the winter trees turn into musical instruments, instruments ringing out at the wind's fingertips following the notes hanging in the sky. And not only trees. Listen to the streams in the valleys. Water bouncing off rocks as it flows echoing under sheets of ice is music too. The tree where high notes ring from high branches low notes from low branches is a stringed instrument, the valley where loud notes ring from big rocks quiet notes from small rocks is a wind instrument, On a day like today when snow has fallen white over the world, the image of the one we yearn for effaced, I want to listen to music leaning here beside my window.