Thorn

Here, I’m walking through a garden. There,
beyond this rough-leaved rose hedge, you
cry. Lost child, I can hear you from the other
side of the horizon, the other side of night.
I call you lost even though you’re held, for
who can say the man who holds you is your
family? All I have to hear you with are these
eyes, that photograph. The dark red petals
at my feet have been blown down by a storm;
the blood running into your eyes fills mine
with tears. Who would gouge a small boy?
Who would be glad his blood fell, spotted the
street, scattered it with iron-scented petals?

Epistolary

The image is from a lovely article on the making of a new mosaic by Aidan Hart.

The alphabets we use are all broken, but you and I
don't need them whole. Tesserae from our respective
shard-hordes, rough against fingertips that fit them into
place, speak for us, to each other, in a mosaic of un-
voiced vowels: silent, layered, reflecting glints of light.