After a mid-string broke in my squash racquet
My shots were more effective, being less hard,
And I won the match. I did not soon repair it,
Seeing the virtue of its being marred.
After the hammer snapped that hits the B-string
In my piano, next to middle C,
I had to avoid the note by switching octaves,
And thought this breakage better not to be.
After the heartiness vanished from my heart
I spoke with accuracy, with finesse,
But wished most to feel whole, to find my way
Towards warmth again, away from emptiness.
So breakings differ. Repairs least unimpeded
Are those most hard, most lonely, and most needed.