It was such a little plate,
fragile as a flower.
It gave me peace
to sit and gaze at it by the hour.
It had a chip, but then,
people have chips too -
ones that can't be repaired
with the strongest glue.
My hands would tremble
when I picked it up.
Somewhere along the way
I had broken the matching  cup,
leaving me with a single plate
to love and treasure.
Old hands shake with pain.
I dropped it on the floor,
shattering it too badly to repair.
Someday someone will discover
when I have died...
a tattered old envelope
with my broken plate inside.