Pocketful of Glass

Stuck my hand into

A pocketful of glass

Smoothed by the sand

Dulled by the sea.

They fail to understand

How I withdraw my hand

Unharmed. They stare in alarm,

Concerned, as if I'd been maimed,

Or burned. I wonder the same,

Unimpressed, and recall that

Sharp shards of glass lose

Their threat among the wet

Beating of waves. Sun sets

And rises, tide rolls out

And in, and I win.

I win.


Copyright 2012   Liya Khenkin