Shattered Glass

I set the table for a feast that never was,
laid out silverware of hope,
glasses brimming with almosts,
candles flickering in a draft I should have sensed.

I invited certainty, but it declined,
sent regret instead,
draped in my brother’s voice,
in the darkness of doors that won’t stay shut.

I wrote my son’s future in ink,
but the page blurred,
damp with waiting,
creased under the weight of wanting too much,
or even just wanting.

I stood light, just for a moment,
and life clipped my wings for it—
shattered glass,
a sharp reminder
that expectation is a brittle thing,
respite, a trick of the light.

I keep setting the table,
knowing the storm will come,
that hope is an expensive guest,
one that never pays its share.