joy comes

I am a mourning person.

Isn’t there something about the day as it
Shatters again, slowly
Like the crazing of an ancient teacup

Fragile and stately,
Sturdy as the Word,
Tinkling
Like shards of expectation?

Jingling, through the chimney
To rewrap the dead strewn under the tree?

Fast broken, first breaking --
Still, promise churns in the wake of morning.