At work, we pave the foot paths and fill in holes in the driveway with pottery that cracked during the bisque firing. There's no use for them even though it makes for quite the expensive pavement. I thought it was sad.
Your feet move over
These poor little pieces of broken pots.
Broken bowls and plates, vases, bakers
And casserole dishes
You move over them like
That these are the things paths are made of.
But they lie there, knowing
That had they not cracked
Under the heavy eye of the master,
Had they held it together
Instead of splitting
And falling apart,
They could have been something great.
What kind of paths are made
with shattered dreams?
What million dollar heartaches
Submit and lift up your sole?
Isn't it the way many paths
Are made?
Many fail and line the path
That leads to the few
That get to sit
With honor and such hard
Cold
Beauty
Upon the shelf.
Yes, These are the things that paths are made of.
Really nice concept here. I wonder which pot, at the end of the day, can be more proud of what it's become?
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