The Blue Vase

the blue vase
sits by herself
on the centre glass;
thin lips
that don't part
so much,
a graceful waist
sculpted
by light and dark -
playing with her
patterns and curves;
she stands unchanged,
holding clear water,
trusted with
a tiny breath of life -
a wildflower
by the road-side,
given a new life.

the blue vase -
yes, she has a form,
a personality,
a story
from the dark ages,
of heirlooms
and oft-trodden paths,
of rebellion and mediocrity,
dreams
of sun-kissed mornings,
beliefs that hold her
in place
on that very glass, where she
finds herself;
one blow, one fall,
and she's gone!
to pieces
that cannot fit together
in the same way,
to form the same form;

the blue vase -
she returns
to her formless form
sometimes,
kneeling at the altar -
a poet, a pilgrim,
a wayfarer, a murderer,
or a little child,
sometimes,
only to forget
for a moment
the impossible weight
and impermanence
of being alive;
a blue vase
yearning to drink
the clear water
she holds inside.