I was Brittle ancient glass.

Envying the Willows,

Who bow to Earth

When the Tempest blows.

I was no willow.

I wept at my false strength.

For the large flexible Boughs,

Stand tall after God’s Wrath.

My Fall was destined.

I was my own Prophet.

The breeze eventually passed,

And Billions of Pieces scattered.

“Look within to find peace,”

Pious onlookers say.

But Brittle, then Broken,

Was all left of my Legacy.

Tiny, sharp--Bitter;

What remained of me caused Pain.

Though crushed beneath Feet of Scorn,

I was no longer Brittle nor Maimed.

Then the Daystar cried,

“All belongs to Me!

Child, you have not died,

You possess Power you cannot See.”

Blessed with Deep Sleep.

The years blinked by under many Moons,

Surfaces became Smooth.

My decay eventually produced Blooms.

I was Brittle ancient glass.

Envying the Willows,

Who bow to Earth

When the Tempest blows.

But now my Rebirth is a Miracle,

Still here at Thirty-five!

I bathe in a spacious Sky,

No longer Brittle, but Alive!