A clay *** holds your happiness. It's halfway tall, reaching up to your thigh, Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow. Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp, and a black drawn line that curls from base to lip, and over. Insides encumbered by sweet darkness, shaded glory, because outside, gleaming. Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone leaked through the bottom where the end had broken and flavor escaped to land on your mirthful urn. Blue so clear, the sky surely lost a piece of itself as a crack appeared and a fragment cascaded downward to shatter along your pleasant chalice. And in between, are lines of green that could have only originated on pinewood trees in a forest so dark that monsters beware. Bordering a little town where children played and only truth was called, never dare. Because there is red on your delighted decanter. Spattered droplets of coagulated sparks. Jaded needles saturated, with pine fresh essence emanating from your zesty flagon. And a single spot, Barren. Bereft of treasure. Parted from cerulean. Robbed of Viridian. And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis. Occupying there, a white blemish, a shape of infinite corners immaculately defined and so small, you will never find it on the canister that harbors your smile.