Shards

I walked with shards
Of a broken pot
Clutched tightly in my hand.
The shards were sharp
And cut me.
Blood, that started
Where the heart beats,
Colored the shards,
A gaudy glaze.

I went into a gathering of men.
Each had his own broken pot
With bloodied shards,
In open hands.
Each man thought
He was alone with pain
And his own broken pot.

First one, and then another,
Screwed up his courage
In the sacred space we made,
Told the story of his pot,
How it had been broken,
How he had felt the pain,
Alone these many years,
How he had been afraid
Of all the other men
With broken pots
That all the other men
Had hidden.

We have fashioned a container
Out of shards of broken pots
And blood.
It stands among us wide and deep
And full of brother love.
This love pours out
To heal our wounds,
And we are all afraid
No more.

Copyright 2006 by M. David Orr