Broken Plates Mending

The taverna reminded me of a rabbi
Offering multiple interpretations
Over the meaning of glass
Under the heel of the groom,
Met with joy for the sound
Of something fragile breaking.

Clear spirits are all around the world,
Every culture sharing in common
A moonshine, schnapps or grappa.
But only some celebrate the smashing
Whose purpose in destruction is as
Thoroughly fun as thoroughly veiled.

Now meaning swirled aside the Aegean,
Shards piling high near the dancer's floor.
A note of caution for the sandaled,
Recalling point one of the rabbi's remark:
Life is hard and sometimes hurtful
And many things go bump in the night.

Sounds of crashing also establish
A higher doctrine of truth and love.
Behind and within chance and change
is something  unmoving yet not unmoved;
A platonic lecture to drinking buddies:
Only love by beauty immortal makes.

But shattered plates amidst the laughing,
whoop another lesson or two,  for
Against the ancient hellenic theories
Today we relearn a different mistake:
That truth is lost, corrupt and stolen and
Nothing is beautiful that does not die.

Which is why we never worship
With plastic petals adorning altars
or gaze on icons of inkjet saints,
But with Lilies that brown unlasting,
We remember goodly sacrifice:
It is no offer that costs us nothing.

Solemn thoughts melt in the moment
Of dancing and twirling arms on arms
Of stranger and partner finding rhythm
Of new saints swaying to equal song:
Joy breaks through, past will or want,
And mending is there in broken plates.

Note:  Despite an uncertain economy, the Greeks have been universally fun and caring, certainly in the many tavernas we've had the good fortune to visit.  Have been reading again Plato's Symposium and considering old conversations about different stuff.