Violet Rose

The earthen bowl is smooth
From wear
And empty.

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

Except regret.