A Lidded Vase

It is just there.

A lidded vase,

blue and white,

unsigned, unmarked and unbranded,

hand made,

hand painted,

and unremarkable.

It fits into my hand as if measured

and created for that purpose.

It has the right weight, that good heft

of something meaningful,

a sovereign’s orb

for a common man.

With closed eyes,

the cool glaze feels familiar,

like the marble skin of Endymion,

sleeping in Chatsworth.

It is the right size

to hold small secrets,

little treasures,

valuable only to me,

like coins and keys,

and the sunflower seeds

from my dear dead sister

with whom I still speak.

The potter has given a shard

of his life to the making of this,

to bringing it into being,

this vase,

which has no value now,

which thieves would spurn,

which is worthless to everyone,

except to me.

There are flaws in the painting,

in the glazing and moulding.

It is imperfect.

I am imperfect.

This life is imperfect.

And that is

perfectly

fine.