Cutting the onions induced more tears
And I slung the paring knife into the sink,
The crash ringing out like a cymbal.
Moving through the wreckage
I spotted a symbol - another sign -
I rubbed my finger over it robotically.
Reaching out, blindly, for anything clean,
Another colourful teacup clattered to the floor,
Three splintered shards spinning out in the impact.
Three gold-bound petals pluming proudly
Outlined clearly under my inquiring index
Identified by each elevated aspect.
I finally gathered myself into the bathroom
For the reviving cold of the tap to wash
Stinging sensations and recollected disasters.
Three petals and three flowers:
Each emblem in pieces,
Each icon in flames.