Psalm at the Glass

Sand—
before sight,
before consent,
light broken among grains,
each scattering its claim.

Heat intervenes:
lightning’s instant law,
the long travail of fire,
a stone descending
without regard.

What shatters
learns another order.

Glass remembers
its former dust.

In the mirror
a tower stands—
not stone,
but color
held by lead,
raised through fracture.

Harps flank it,
strings held still,
as if sound itself
were waiting
to be spared.

Notes lie as sand lies,
each apart,
each complete,
owing nothing
to the whole.

Or else the chord
was always present,
and hearing is the art
of consent.

Reflection is not the self,
but the hour
when the many
are allowed
to hold together.