The Crack

It began with a tap of a rock on the glass
Tossed flippantly up by an unseeing tire
Then knocked off forever into the great grass

The perfect-placed tap turns smoothness to ire
The dot white as froth on transparented black
Grows a sharp tail like a needle-thin fire

Splintering, slithering—straight cutting back
The jolts push it farther and wind pulls it tight
Silently hissing and spreading its track

As fall drops to winter it ever creeps right
Spring’s leap to summer gives length to its tail
Until it lay stretched like a split in the night

Two solid halves are eternally frail

So sturdy a sheet—but now one more small tap
And millions of pieces will fall on my lap