An empty vase
can be cobalt blue
barely reflecting light
coming in the window,dim like the last row of trees
on a western hill.
Or it can be ruby
which would only be spoiled
by the line
at the water’s surface,
reminder of fractures in old cement.
Just don’t give me a cracked vase.
It won’t stand up to normal use
with its split lip dribbling away its contents.
Instead, I’ll take one of those pitchers
in mustard yellow that leans back
waiting to be filled,
and just as willingly fills
the glasses within reach.
Emptied, it settles back
ready to serve again.
©2020 Muriel Thumm
can be cobalt blue
barely reflecting light
coming in the window,dim like the last row of trees
on a western hill.
Or it can be ruby
which would only be spoiled
by the line
at the water’s surface,
reminder of fractures in old cement.
Just don’t give me a cracked vase.
It won’t stand up to normal use
with its split lip dribbling away its contents.
Instead, I’ll take one of those pitchers
in mustard yellow that leans back
waiting to be filled,
and just as willingly fills
the glasses within reach.
Emptied, it settles back
ready to serve again.
©2020 Muriel Thumm
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