Always look up when opening a window (a poem)

It was the end of September, when October's first blush can be seen if you're looking for it when I realized that all crockery exists in a state of not-yet-broken.



We were Fall cleaning when the apple-red doumbeck was knocked loose, bounced off my head as if I was a rhythmic Sir Isaac, shattering on impact with the floor.

The year was 1997 when I bought the drum.
I was young, poor and dressed in a kilt.
The drum was inexpensive and made a pleasant noise when struck.

Now my musical pottery has joined the mugs, bowls, vases, ash trays, and sculptures that came before it, all once whole but now in shards and awaiting the archaeologist's shovel and brush.

Like the earth from which it was made my terra cotta drum has been broken by the forces of time and gravity, but you can't fix tectonic plates with Super Glue.