All week it’s been rising,
this longing to fix the places
in me that feel broken—
and then your letter arrives,
a celebration of brokenness,
and I become one of those Japanese pots
in which every crack is repaired
with fine gold.
Sometimes it happens,
we hold for each other
a generous mirror,
and though nothing has changed,
nothing’s the same,
even our fear turns to shine.
The image of the broken pot repaired is perfect, such a contrast between the jagged edged and the gold. I’ve seen one of these pots somewhere, beautiful.