Perspective

I am a ceramic bud vase, and being
kilned has taught me patience, what
it means to harbor a red rose, a thorny
stem.  I have been carefully planned:
born of Earth’s fine clay, molded by
agile hands, baked long enough
for me to function, I exist as a
form of art. 

I have been shipped all right, yet I
have also been chosen.  Now, far
from the skill of the potter’s hands,
I relinquish any thoughts of being
flowerless.  Indeed, I am a home
for flora; I am rigid yet I am warm.
I stand like a white sentry on the
edge of a lustrous, black mantle
amid a slew of picture frames.

Someone’s dark eyes meet mine:
his eyes smolder like burning coals.
Faces of others form living
arrangements.
Pale frowns mock life.
Children scurry amid floor lamps
and Hunter green furniture, yet
laughter is lacking.  Embers
glow in the fireplace,
though I perceive
a lasting chill.

Someone has placed a
chrysanthemum in me, a
white lily too, as I, upon my
lofty perch, am witness to a wake.
It is the time of mourning. 
Flowers notwithstanding,
I squash my pride to a
narrow
bitterness
even as the air
grows colder, and
grieving lingers.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp 
8-7-16