the broken vase no longer holds flowers
but
the shape of its shards in the sand is pleasing

the vase was blue and held yellow spring flowers
the cat that smashed it tar black
water drains soon into dryness

I took the larger pieces
– the dust I blew into corners –
and painted bare pottery gold

laid in the garden its function has shifted
now pure adornment (if purity we know)
stop
reflect
still its being enchants me