The Plate
It was such a little plate,
fragile as a flower
It gave me peace to sit
and gaze at it by the hour
It had a chip, but then
people have chips too,
ones that can't be repaired
with the strongest glue
My hands would tremble
when I would pick it up
Somehow along the way
I had broken the cup,
leaving me with a
single plate to love
and treasure
Old hand shake with pain
I dropped it on the floor,
shattering it too badly
to glue its pieces anymore
Someday, someone will discover,
when I have at last died,
a tattered old envelope
with my broken plate inside
Copyright © Sherry Asbury | Year Posted 2018
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