That’s it; it’s done.
Off he went, my wayward son,
With nary a thought backwards,
Of things left undone,
Sailing out towards the Western sun.
It was a Ming vase,
Priceless, precious, but not perfect.
Sadly, cracks riddled the surface,
And ran deeper than the heart’s chords,
Till one day, handled with too much care,
That vase cracked, then shattered,
Only pieces left cupped in my hands,
Blood, drip, drip, dripping from my thumb,
Where a shard had pricked the skin.
I am not a potter.
I have duct tape, not glue.
There are other Ming vases,
That shall, for me, stand true.