I am
a vessel with no lid
like an odd bowl or a deep dish
thrown away in a vacant lot

Yet in the morning
after it rained all night then stopped
I can own the fresh blue sky
sharing it with the pool of water within me

Dead butterflies, birds’ feathers
expired contracts and the like
get thrown into me at times
but some days the wind blows strong
and cleans them up for me

No one casts a heartfelt look inside me but
in the night when moonbeams gracefully reach inside me
I can happily joyfully send back the beams
from my vacant depths

Is this about discarded china?
No. This is about myself.