salt jar

a poem on accepting the breaking

salt jar

I dropped the salt jar this morning.

The lid shattered and the body rolled along

the kitchen floor. Decapitated figure, 

topless insides oxidizing.



I thought just yesterday,

every mug I have will break

eventually. Creatures that cannot be kept alive

line my shelves, little soldiers.



Brave the war. Existing is their protest.

I may be their keeper, but I cannot keep them.

Their sands slip through my fingers –

I am their destroyer.



Great care means no triumph, 

I’ve only extended their sentence.

My little soldiers, how can I keep them alive?

All things are tiny destructions.



I want to mourn, but they have no fear,

in fact, they have no feelings about the matter.

Either way, the dust gets mixed into clay again.

If able, they’d tell me to look at the hope.



Teach me to number not the things,

but to thank each tender act of being.

They are brave, so I must be.

In my favorite cup, I make the tea.

---

postscript

this poem is a little off beat from my usual style of poetry, but I think the end of october has me in a more haunting mood than usual. I’d love to know if you had a favorite line or any interpretations in the comments.

as always, take care <3