The cracked vase

humming its one note to the dust—

te hā slips through its ribs,

the breath of what was held still moves.
Somewhere, a word breaks open:

awa, remembered by water,

reeds recall the pulse

of hands that shaped their name.
Belonging flickers here—

where tongues cross like tides,

the mouth a horizon splitting—

each word a small act of creation.
Each shard sings whakapapa,

each seam holds a name half-remembered.

Ko wai au—

the question and the answering pull.
Even in fracture, sound endures,

hā carrying what light neglects,

a fragile song, broken sing,

a heldness remade in listening home.