What good are they, these fractured things?
Can they be strung on gold wire, made into rings?
They are not silk or wool to be grown, spun, dyed
nor stitched into robes—though of course I’ve tried—
they are stretched and torn, so washed and worn
that light shines right through.
They can be stacked like bricks, but hold no weight.
If forged like steel, they’d make an unhinged gate.
They croak, stutter, screech: no blackbird song—
no practical good, though I’ve loved them so long.
So, drop them in a jar. Save them like seed.
In 800 years, may they bloom at your need.
Day 23 prompt for the PAD Chapbook Challenge was an apology poem. Also, I read a story of 800-year-old seeds that grew into squash, and it has been rattling around in my head.