Shard
Thursday 3 February 2022
poetry
A sliver caught in winter light,
A glass‑born shard, thin as a sigh,
It whispers secrets of the night,
Where once a whole vase used to lie.
Each edge, a fragile, biting kiss,
Reflects the moon’s pale, argent gleam,
A fractured piece of quiet bliss,
A lonely note in beauty’s dream.
In palm it rests, a cold refrain,
A reminder that from break comes art—
The shard, though small, can hold the rain,
And paint the world with coloured heart.
