Heart gourd plucked by fragments
tormented by events, unplanned
or challenged, round cupped hands
hold life’s blood even as it spills
upon the sand, each cherished drop
as precious as any moment in time
the least, the best, the pain, the song,
the laughing dance, a child’s tears,
a mother’s face. Watchers stranded
at the shore, hold emptied shells
pursed lips or hands, fingers right
atop fingers left, a catcher’s mitt
that cannot hold all the journeys
fearful watchers never undertook.
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