She took a sphere and dipped it
In particulate glitter,
So that the whole surface shone
With myriad tiny glints.
She slammed the sphere on the floor,
Picking up whatever flecks
Fell, counting them, wondering
If they now felt singled out
From all the myriad flecks
Still stuck to where they began
On the sphere that always bounced
Back up from the slam, unharmed,
Only minus some glitter.
She sieved them through her fingers,
That sprinkling of bright pieces.
Did they think they’d been chosen
For punishment or glory?