dusted by the day and years, held upon a flimsy shelf,
in a shop, lost down languishing alleys of the city.
I found you, long ago, entranced by beauty, shape and
feel, that magic sense of china finely wrought, by
unknown hands, fired, painted, glazed and then brought
forth to be displayed and purchased. But for what?
The shape a cradling bowl, womb-like with narrowed
source, rising to fulsome hips, made to hold, contain,
preserve, nurture, protect, encase, with a small
but certain lid, which settles into shallow depths of neck
and mouth, the breath and memory held for your eternity,
and the contents imprisoned for mine, as the glue set
hard around smooth edges which once were free, but
now denied access, knowledge, revelation of that which
someone wished to hide. I could dissolve that glue, break
the seal, open up and then reveal, lay waste your truth
upon the world – but I will not. Secrets are a precious
thing and you hold one in the heart of yourself for reasons
beyond my knowing and in which imagination can hold
hands with respect and rejoice in the silent mystery.
Form in its reality
may be much less than truth,
can begin to allow.