I keep the pieces
of the angel ball.
They are too lovely
to discard–
hand painted wings
and stars and sky
(and dried red
peppers in a bunch)
on egg-shell slivered
glass.
Ideas broke my heart . . .
be perfect, which you cannot be.
I struggle to explain.
The shards did not
go back as planned.
The pieces fall to earth.
The whole poem is beautiful, but the final three lines are the absolute kicker: I read them and, immediately, turned back to the top of the poem to re-read the whole piece again. You capture, perfectly, that sad sense of brokenness where something that is beautiful and precious cannot be put back together again. That inescapable movement downwards in the final line (‘The pieces fall to earth’) is not only a perfect ending to the piece (and a full explanation of the concept) but it echoes with such a sense of finality. Love it!
Thank you so much, Anne!