Glass laying in a heap

At the bottom of a steel drum

He stands vigilantly stirring

As everyone shakes their head

At his preposterous idea.


Fragrant, like a rose that blooms in spring

Laying open for the world to caress

Many will touch the rose

Admire its beauty and form

But very few will know

Where it began

What the many winters stole from it

How it struggles sometimes

To meet even its basic needs.


He stirs the glass around

Uncaring about the naysayers

As they litter by

Making noise

When he tries to make beauty

From broken shards of glass.