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