He told her she was pottery; a vase with grooves and cracks.
The patterns of the history she hid behind her back.
Within his words he layered in- like thread upon a loom-
The sweetest undercurrent to illuminate that gloom.
In certain cultures, he decreed, when pottery is cracked
They aggrandize them with gleaming gold to bring their splendor back
For they believe, with certainty, once damage has been wrought
Those tiny cracks, now filled with light, hold truths that can't be taught.