Teacup
by Columbine
A blossom of bone china under glass
My matching saucer broken long ago
And with it any relevance I had
To graciousness, or other cups, or tea
Among some other curios I rest
Like them, piquing no curiosity
I sit here just because this is my place
For were I missing, Aunt would surely know
A curl of painted blue forget-me-nots
Around my rim, a decorative shawl
Bestows on me no more significance
Than thoughts of summer days in years gone by
And do these china cats, these satin buds
Know anything of summer, or do I?
These relics of some unknown painter's hand
Tell tales that even I can not recall
Oolong, or orange pekoe, or Earl Grey
Ceylon and China, these things I have known
Before Aunt found me pleasing to the eye
And brought me here to languish, much as she
Once fashionable, now too delicate
To be what we were first conceived to be
Why make a teacup translucent and frail
Or woman out of fragile flesh and bone?
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