THE OSAKA VASE
The lamplight glides off the sloping sides
Of the blue-gray stoneware Osaka vase.
My daughter, the potter, had asked advice
From her teacher with the long black hair
And gentle hands on how to inscribe
In vertical kanji a plea for peace
Inspired by her Hiroshima pilgrimage.
This old vase of some thirty years
Has suffered breakage and repairs.
Equally old are the skeletal stalks
Of the dried flowers and reeds it holds
Which we found in the Victorian home
A block or two from our children’s school.
It sends a mute and ancient message
Still falling on deaf human ears.
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