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December 2008, vol 4 no 4

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Hortensia Anderson

 

Mandala

As a child, at dawn, I gather shards of glass, rinse them in the fountain and make my "circle."

Broken glass abounds in Central Park—cobalt Milk of Magnesia blue, beer bottles from honey to amber, shattered greens that once held wine.

"She might cut herself" strangers admonish my mother. But she knows I have worlds to make and not once do I injure myself.

At dusk, with a twig, I scatter the circle and destroy the world, knowing there will be others...

Tibetan mandala—
the sands of time blow through
the sea of space

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