Man of Stained Glass

This poem has become a favorite of G. Emil Reutter,
so I told him he could have it.

Part of him shatters.
In the darkness, on his knees,
he seeks to find peace,
and each piece.

Tears wash from his thoughts
the stains of circumstance
to pool with the blood of
his quilted hands.

By touch, he collects
shards of self and soul
large enough to salvage,
semblances of the whole.

Within his consciousness,
sharp edges tumble smooth.
The final fragment he settles
by touch, coarse and loose.

He blindly glazes this
fragile puzzle of glass,
leading each free form
to meld with the last.

To the twilit dawn
he uplifts the pane;
radiant hues kaleidoscope
through fissured stains.