The Plate
slips from my wet hand,
cracks in two at the bottom
of the empty sink.
No favorite. I have
eleven others like it,
but still my eyes well
over another
good thing broken this season.
Outside, the wind howls.
by Jo Angela Edwins
Editor’s note: The haiku stanzas of this poem blend strict syllable counts with the freedom of imagery. The last line closes the poem by gluing all the broken pieces together.
Leave a Reply