The earthen bowl is smooth
Your life has been drunk from it
And shared with me
And the potter's handprints
Can still be seen
Through a life of wearing down the edges.
The bowl, Violet Rose, was made to serve a purpose
And now the function is gone, leaving the empty form
For us, six sober men, to bear away.
You chose me.
I never knew.
If I'd known I'd have asked to drink from your sweetness
A little more.
My duty helps me to remember
Your taste, which goes well with everything