I don't remember ever reading a poem of your before. Have I just forgotten?
Very intriguing poem though. I'm left with a number of curious images. The broken pot of course, and I can see it's one of yours. I wonder if the pot inspired the poem, or the poem led to the broken pot. A pot broken, perhaps, in anger, in response. Somthing to be learned about self, if only the mirrors could be seen as such.
Was it all worth it? She thought.
As the second hand seized its tock.
I love that bit. The moment, so short, as all moments are, yet powerful actions only take a moment to make, and in this one, something shatters irreparably. Was it worth it?
Thrice were the fragments of glass at her feet.
For some reason this one get to me. I am not sure why. Bad things happen in threes?
I hope to come back to this poem tomorrow, when I am more awake. But I am so happpy I caught it before bed.
Good stuff!