a poem a day for a year #161

Some thing happen for a reason.
If I had not broken your heart,
your kind still heart,
if your heart had not splintered, red and raw,
you would never have turned to jazz.
To old records spinning, a soothing balm.
To brown booze and deeply personal dark wells of creativity.
But you did and then later it made perfect order, 
pushing you,
propping you up to walk down
roads that led to her.
That led to the place you are right now.
This beautiful day where you take off your hat and the wind is kind.
And there must reason in that.
Country music singers say it best, 
storytellers spin it.
But poets feel it and it's a kind of daily devotion to turn to bad to good.
To spin gold.