Tired but now sober, I scooped down to lift the pieces, as heavy as lead,
On some I slit my hand, and ruined them, by staining them red.
Some of the pieces are so small I could not pick them up, others eroded by time.
But I could still see where they fitted, by a remembered pattern, that came to mind.
Yes as I recall the piece with the cows, goes somewhere on the front,
The piece, with the proverb, hardly fits it's so blunt.
Ah but these plain pieces I wonder where they should be,
I don't notice their difference, but shaped by breaking I now can see.
Now that they're placed back together, there are holes where clay once was,
And I know it will never hold water again, but still I shall keep this vase,
For it once gave life to roses. Flowers from a friend, or on an anniversary.
But much more than that, I am the vase, for the vase is me.
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