This present is other’s past.
Thus those who walk here do not know the answers.
How is a garden born?
But, descendants listen.
They plant the seed, a shard.
Something new will grow.
Collecting old pieces,
Knowing their places,
And putting them together differently.
Buildings grown of dust, pain and imagination rise from the earth.
Crystals, shattered shards.
Flicking sunlight warped to expose color back to the star that sent it.
A shiny pile of broken pieces from the eyes above, hidden in places impossible.
Intentional, whole, useful, to the eyes that live beneath it.