A vase is a thing of delicate beauty
Fragile elegance, demanding of gentleness
Top it with some roses, lilacs, peonies
Pampas grass, eucalyptus, cotton bloom
Then you have in your hands a jewel.
Standing alone with nothing to fill it but dust
It seems a dull, lonely thing
Waiting for a lovely bloom to bring it to life
Such arrogant things this blooms are
Decaying and dying inside of it
It is known, any vase by itself is incomplete.
Time accords it a more earthy beauty
Cracking and wearing organically
With familiarity it is no longer afforded gentle care
It begins to chip, slowly on the edges at first
Rapidly on the inside as time passes.
A once treasured jewel
Now carelessly discarded
Joining the land of broken things
It was inevitable it's delicate beauty
Would give way to a natural beauty
By no means was that an indication of lost fragility.
With it's earned rough edges
It was foolhardy to bestow carelessness on it
It's broken, we grief
Was it by our hand, we pounder
Cracks can be repaired, we knew
Could we have done more, we dismiss.
Out of sight, its memory from mind erased
It's just a vase, prone to break
Our hands seemingly clean, with no lesson heeded
convinced we played no role
We head off, in pursuit of yet another fragile vase.