Glass

A window must have shattered near the playground where
my kids play in the sand, close to the slides.

Someone has filled the base of a tree with its glistening shards.

My daughter finds the pile of glass, scoops some into her bare hands,
turns to me and asks,
“Mom, is this ice?”

Now I am thinking of all the pieces I have collected,
the things I carry in my hand that should have been
discarded. The fragments of life that shouldn’t be held.