Stood thoughtful on my table’s end a hackneyed vase,
under dirt and time and other such parasites.
There in the corner of my eye it stood
whenever I would read or write or sketch.
On some days it would hold out a rose for me
And on others a posy of violets,
smearing the air with laughter.
A cluster of basil leaves I found one day
strumming music to the wind.
Sometimes I would myself fill it
with countless niveous daisies.
And then on some days, like today,
it would stand bare and empty and hopeful.
FOOTNOTE: I remembered I have a blog page, so here I am after eight months : P