I’m verily inspired by potsherds and beach glass, coal fragments, and other detritus churned up on Rosslyn’s waterfront. Or disinterred from the yard while planting a garden or building a stone wall. I stall awhile and meditate on the process of fragmenting and the potential for reimagining artifacts. I wonder about dark or damaged backstories, sharp shards mollified by time’s palliative pressure into “worry beads” carried and caressed like the glass glob I kept in my pocket for several years as a totem, a talisman, a pocket palliative for angst. I imagine delightful detritus strung into necklaces, assembled in mosaics, relics rhymed in song, or puzzle-pieced into a poem.