The Barefoot Sweeper - Dec. 10, 2020

she brooms the glassblower’s studio at night

barefoot using the moon’s light to find

shards from brittle accidents

but on a charcoal night like this

her feet find them before the bristles

and curses curdle the silence

she picks the pieces from her foot

and wipes some blood on the leg of a stool

the one the master sits on

to bend the liquid glass with breath

lift the art to his eyes

and twist its silhouette still smoldering

with the heat of a small sun

she puts the broom away

slips on her socks and sandals

mumbles goodnight to no one

and with a slight limp

shuffles home

there adorning every surface

of every room fragments of crystal

she just couldn’t throw away