I was once a vase.
But vases are not generally considered useful things –
Unless you count decorative as useful,
Which it might be.
(Who am I to say?)

I knew a vase, once,
All shiny, pretty pretty and empty and all.
But I never was.
Not really.
Were you?
No, I was more a cold-touch terracotta jar
Like those used with ubiquity in antiquity
To store oil and such,
Cool and still,
Inasmuch as I might have brimmed full
With water or, if miracles divine combine
With pots,
(I’ve heard they do)
With wine.

Then one day,
When I was young enough to still be blurred around the edges,
And soft in between,
I fell.
I dropped,
Sparked into a hundred bright shards.
Ten thousand and more particles,
So light, so slight you could not see,
Blew up and briefly gleamed
Like dust absorbed by air,
Then disappeared;
That was me.

Kneeling mercy swept me up,
Sharp bits and all
Jagged and broken and raging
And small.
Love mosaicked me whole and,
Peace by infinitesimal peace,
Superglued me strong.

Eye to mirrored eye I see
That face,
That journeying homeward, plodding,
Soaring metamorphosis of grace.
I can look myself in the eye now, knowing
I’m not the same as before.

No longer smooth (was I ever really smooth?) but cracked and flaky,
But Love knew what to do.
Love got it just right.
Through the mosaic of cracks and gaps,
Through the zig-zagging prism,
Shines pure, and perfectly marvellous,