I can't believe you said "broken pieces." I have sitting on my desk in front of me a small book of my mother-in-law's poetry that I put together and self-published when I found her notebook while clearing out her apartment. The last clear conversation I had with her was to ask her permission to publish the poems. She was amazed at the idea anybody would want to read them, but gave her permission. I loved working that project.
The title of the book is "Broken Pieces." She'd written this poem, with a characteristic tweak at the end --
Broken pieces, scraps and oddments,
Trash and treasure here I store
For you to sift and sort and measure --
Now hold your tongue forevermore.