The Ten-Minute Vase | Paul Sohar
It was the glossy glaze that radiated
through my mind when I passed that vase
displayed at a yard sale on a country road,
but when I came back to it again after
a U-turn a half a mile down the road
the glaze was not quite the same,
not that dawn glow, the dance of light
and dark, the gleam in constant motion,
impossible to pin down and examine,
though the shape was even more intricate,
full of spikes and swirls that pulled out exotic
colors from the surface this way and that,
so that when I wanted to put it back on
the table I couldn't tell which way was up
and found myself looking at my helpless
hands instead of the maker’s mark;
after all, it was a vase that would always
hold a ten-minute chunk of my life.