Fragments of unearthed ceramic,
like a puzzle beneath our fingers,

a garden of blue. Stem and leaf rising.
Painted flowers, their antique shadow.

Almost an entire pagoda.

On the lip of a once-loved bowl
or milk jug is a bee, landing.

We catch the lift of unstinting wings,
smell another summer and rearrange

our pieces – so the healing begins.

Posted: Sun 2 Dec, 2018