I’ve turned my energies to poetry for a while, as I take a two-week challenge from The Daily Post. I didn’t write this poem for the challenge, but was reminded of it, so I thought I’d share it here:

Sorting Glass

Sorting stained glass into bins,
careful lest I cut myself.
How does one parse the spectrum of light
into specific and separate boxes?

Blue or green?
Translucent or opaque?
Flashed? Rolled? Blown? 
It even defies the line 
between solid and liquid.

Can’t mold it into endless shapes,
like a potter fondling clay on a wheel.
Can’t sand it smooth like a choice piece of wood,
and wipe the fine dust away with gentle strokes.

No. It’s cold and rigid and sharp and brittle.

But when the light finds it,
it warms and dances and morphs 
into myriad shapes and textures and nuances
that no other medium can rival. 
It comes alive. 

It brings me to life.
And as I sort it into bins,
being careful not to cut myself,
I feel its pulse in time with mine.