Perhaps ice breaks not when you fall
but when you get up again.
Perhaps the sky will someday fall in.

Perhaps the world is made of only spider webs
and dew drops
that glisten in the light of spring mornings.

But then again, perhaps
the world is breaking into a puzzle as we sit and
puzzle over plastic mugs.

But then again, perhaps the world is already broken. Perhaps we
just haven’t seen the cracks, much less the pieces. Perhaps that is why
we haven’t found the solution yet.

Perhaps
it is all about time.
But then again,

does time even measure
the breaking of a heart?
Or the end of a butterfly’s migration?

Then perhaps this is why
we don’t notice the flesh of the earth
wilting with our footsteps.

Maybe
that is exactly why we measure
our days with time. Our worth with paper. Our self with others.

Perhaps that is why we are always reaching
to make
the impossible possible.

Perhaps this is where we miss the broken
hearts and the dead
butterflies. And perhaps

it all started with forgetting.
The forgetting of the butterflies
and the forgetting of our hearts.

Perhaps there came a time
when perhapses were too
gentle a breeze on our forgotten hearts.

Of course, it is easier to forget
without a heart, easier to stop breaking
if there is nothing left to break.

Perhaps that is why we seem to be able
to break
and keep breaking the broken.

So perhaps,
it is all an illusion.
Not really there at all.