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.