Questions I Have Asked

Why did it happen?
Why did we shatter
like a pair of glass pitchers
unwittingly swept,
that fall in slow motion
and crash on the floor,
that scatter and shatter
and fly from the light
to burrow in shadows
and slash at the feet
of all who pass by
though years have gone by.

No, this canvas is hung,
it cannot be torn.

So I ask of the past,
Where is the light?
Where may I paint?

Where may I cast
all my colors
as radiant flowers,
as twinkling stars,
as bright northern lights
that shine in the darkest of nights?