we all have many chances

The first chance is usually fleeting.

Puffed out from between the lips like oxygen

we forgot we needed.

A cloud of air on a frosted wintertime morning

something we’ve released before we knew it belonged to us.

Like sand wiped on derrieres of ripped denim

you would laugh to know that just two palm’s worth of sand were yours

could you find your crystals on the beach?

The second chance is drawn out,

ripped like fabric from the sewing machine.

You know that the glass is broken

because you hear the scattering of teacups on tile

and when you tossed the pieces in the trash

you wore a ring of beaded blood

because shards of glass are not beautiful jewels

until the ocean washes them smooth with her tears.

The third chance is a gritting of teeth,

seeing the sand slipping like water down through the hourglass.

hearing the clock tick ticking…

like your grandmothers wristwatch so many years ago

as she smoothed the sweaty curls away from your forehead

mapping out her love in the constellations of your freckles.

The inevitable knowing that each moment is irretrievable,

and that using up your chances like layers of Kleenex,

is like collecting fistfuls of water, and calling them the sea. 

-The Shutter Muse