A jug is a thing - made, not born It is held and holds Ancient on the inside Turned earth, Clay made, hand crafted Deft thumbs and their ghosts Marked by nails Pushed and pulled A jug has a belly A jug has a lip, an arm, a neck It is to be filled and full It is emptied, happily, in company It remains empty alone Urns aside, a jug lives Holds water, holds wine Pours life over and over Into a mouth Over a head Back to the earth But the jug cracks Made to be used Now useless Expect nothing Expect no decay Expect no mourning Nothing within, nothing without A thing is made to be used From the ground the jug came The jug returns Tiny creatures crawl inside Out of nothing pours in life In millennia, perhaps, it will be found Every part examined An artefact, no thing Who drank its nectar Who held its neck Who shaped this lip Not used, now viewed No water, no wine Life on a shelf The crack repaired The absence is still keenly felt But now the belly can be refilled