spilled pearls patter on the floor

the broken strand which was once whole

trails from between her childish fingers

and the burn of shame crawls up her throat

fans out on her cheeks.

shall she drop on desperate knees

and flail her arms like one desperate and drowning

pulling the opalescent escapees into her lap

corralled to be restrung and hung

around her innocent neck?

or shall she instead

wait for the thrum of rolling beads to cease

kick the final bead or two beneath the couch

then pocket the thread and walk away

in search of something priceless to cherish?

this is circumstance

and choice and free will

dropped into the unwitting hands of a child

who only wants the pretty thing

as long as it is perfect and whole

she knows not her own power

to render that which was priceless