The broken shards,
irregular and clear,
twinkle the crisp, spring light.
And bright, it's near. It's dear,
on the dug earth
where a sidewalk's hug gave birth
to an hourglass. They laugh,
their neighbors, scrambling weeds,
the ungainly, tight buds, catch
at it, the light. And when
they reach up into it,
and to the air, from where sand,
a lifetime of ago's ,
might have spilled, their thoughts run
back to the shards,
and the reflected sun.