Ninety-Eight

the end of something.

necklaces seem to be a symbol
of something that will never break;
a perfect, unending oval that can
assume any magical shape.
around my neck these 108 beads,
sandalwood scented, soft and round,
they hung there all summer
blending into my skin tone and
the lost thoughts i have found.
with a pull of fate in the wrong angle
beads spilled all over the floor;
just a material object, i chanted
a mantra, but now
is my calm no more?
scooping stray beads off the
gray blue surface
tears poured uncontrollably
down my cheeks: now
in my hands i hold this disjoined mala
and too many thoughts to keep.
what's in a necklace, what's in a prayer?
just wood, string, words and
a castle of air-
yes, i loved the beads, and i'll love
without them,
and i will always treasure
the day that i found them.