Your hands once held the vessel whole—
smooth with years, unmarked by sorrow,
a simple offering of days.
But it slipped, and in a breath
was scattered—
pieces lying fragile and sharp
upon the ground of grief.

You gathered them, trembling,
yet could not restore what once had been.
And so the fragments remained—
not as they were,
but as something waiting to be remade.

For beauty does not end in breaking.
It waits in the places where light enters,
where lines of fracture
become pathways for grace,
and the shattered edges
catch the gleam of dawn.

And slowly, the vessel took on a new form—
its cracks traced like rivers of gold,
its pieces bound into a strength unknown before,
its very wounds opening into windows of light.

So when you look upon what was broken,
do not see ruin alone.
See what was transfigured through loss,
what was made luminous in sorrow,
what now shines with a beauty
that could never have been
without the breaking.

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