A family is a delicate thing.
And somewhere glass shatters
Or someone dons a ring.
The crystalline and stone
hands clasped and bound.

"It's bundles of joy."
By the sound
Of cooing and crying.

One more sound,
then another.
Each one an ember glowing
fires of difference
that not one member can solve
or celebrate.

And the sun shines at dawn.
or, at least, it's hoped.
Father knows it will.
or Mother says he does,
it's hoped.

Just as they know
one son might rise.
Or another might fall,
or neither.

Like the daughter that shines.
Or the one that falters,
or neither.

It is the same,
and all are loved,
or one, or none.

Just as tides play
upon the seashore,
so do hearts play
upon the time
they have with each other.

And we hope they play kindly.
If not, oh well.
"We tried."
Said any tired parent.

"Be kind to your brothers
And sisters."
But did we ever
really
talk about it?

No

Who would?
When it means being kind.

Kind to parents that may
have missed the mark.
Kind to siblings that have done better
or worse.
Kind to their children, with no respect
or much.

History may be rich with kindness,
and then again history
is rife with war.
And all may be lost
in the fires,
in the rivalry.

And somewhere glass shatters,
the dogs bark, and people
talk and talk and chatter.
All round a small flame,
Embers kept close by the tender

hands of each member.
All round the circle huddled
warming every other muddled
piece of tragedy
or scrap of joy.

Good or bad
it's no matter,
the fire is warm and so
they have each other.

Their stories are rich
and so no one can *****.
Each tale is a shard
glued together and told
gently
for family
is a delicate thing.