Thursday, November 29, 2012

Mug in hand

Cold air nipped, black road waved
Standing at the end, finding another end
Lifting an odd object up from the ground
My heart feeling a small loss
A gift that was given, which can not be bought
Silence as I contemplate the person who gave this mug
Dark night and the beams from my car show me shattered pottery
Pieces are gathered up and places in ironic safety
Driving on I hear her say to me
Kien problem
Das Leben ist kien Ponyhof.
Yes and broken mugs are a dime a-dozen
But not ones brought across thousands of miles
Given by a German friend
Who is no longer able to give mugs, which remind me to pause and rest