I shore these things against my ruins.
-T.S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”
The Sound is all glass. I walk the sunlit beach with its wreck and ruin, shell and crab leg in clear-bottle light. My counselor, Rachel, reflects through a screen my tears of joy and I feel You reflecting back through her, between us, like seaglass held up to light. I see my own face over mirrored water. And it is all change, the way water moves its rippled light over rock, the way you broke the stone heart in me and made it overflow with you, reflecting back the You in me. It had all been a well. If I would only drink the cup, not the Agean sea of white wine but truth clear as water. And all shall be well, all manner of thing shall be well. Nana used to listen outside the bathroom door while I sang in the shower. He opens the door— everything steam and falling water, wet footsteps in the hall where she walked, and He bids me let the music I love be what I do. To write is praise, to speak and pray, let word fall into broken silence as I walk the path home. Alleluia. Amen.