What We Do
I miss rain. The kind that’s driven
by the wind, the kind that’s blown
against the window, finds a way
into the ashes in the grate.
My daughter says I’m wise,
the wisest man she says she knows,
she says she thinks I have the answers.
I think she’s cinnamon, I think
she’s every shade of wave careening
up the beach just for the joy
and sometimes she’s the deepest
grey. The sky reflects. We talk
about Kintsugi, the art of fixing
broken china, understanding
imperfection, creating something
from the cracks.
by Neil Flatman
Editor’s Note: Unexpected imagery is a delight. In the center of this poem, “I think she’s cinnamon,” gleams like the golden repair of a cracked teacup. Some poetry doesn’t need to be perfect, just beautiful.