Apart is the direction in which things fall,
beads from a broken string,
clattering to the floor,
scattering under furniture.
rolling into irretrievable crevices,
some to be found years and years later
when the rug is pulled up
the house is torn down,
by then just a hint of what once was joined
together in the direction of which things are made,
beads adorning a wrist
learning the moves of the dance
earning praise for flexibility
grasping the life ring
in case down is the direction in which the ship goes.
©2013 Noreen Braman
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