Here lies my ruined vessel

      all shards and sharp edges

      jutting from the path beneath my feet.

Once she contained a world:

      a riot of marigold &

      fragrant mountain mint,

      scabiosas dancing in the summer breeze,

      peopled by bumbling bees and cautious moths;

      a feast for the senses.

Somehow, amidst the commotion of the living,

      I missed the quiet devastation working from within,

      borne of seasons and time and piques of weather

      each eroding what had once contained

      so much promise that

      I believed she would last forever.

I could not fix her if I tried.

      And I tried.

Now I’m left to ponder,

      As my hands grasp at these brittle, dismembered fragments:

      could there be beauty, even in this?