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the flowers lie perfectly still in the pond of water

petals scattered, adrift and reflected


I had watched the vase tip over with someone’s accidental touch

a very light, quite faint motion

and it left the surface of the table, descending with little resistance


the vase was beautiful and ornate

valued as priceless by its owner, for it was a family heirloom

intricate patterns painted across the sides

strings of lanterns intertwined to show a path

with the darkened forest and silver crescent set behind


the pieces are sharp fragments

edges deep and straight enough to cause bleeding

but I hear the bleeding in the owner’s heart when she sees the scene

everyone heard the crash, but only she cradled the broken pieces


I too saw the beauty, but not in the same way

the broken vase was a form of art by itself

for destruction can sometimes be the same as creation

enough to move the mind, enough to create tears of emotion

enough to shake the soul, and enough to be remembered for all time


and I think to myself

is it not still even more astonishing when the pieces are brought back together?

just like when a person rises from their ashes and dust

as a stronger person with a vision to live and a future of hope


in the end, however

I laugh for the irony of the situation

for those flowers were a bouquet of freesias

a representation of joy.