Same breakfast this morning,
same cereal and berries
in the same bowl, blue and white
hand-painted lines, cracked,
stained brown with aging glue.
Same coffee cup, tomato red, chipped
where my lips touch the rim.
New ones never tempt me. I savor
the stained blue, the crack on my lips.

I read in the paper, a Japanese vase
auctioned for thousands of dollars—
a cracked vase over seven centuries old.
Wabi Sabi, they call it. Wabi for simplicity,
Sabi for aged, imperfect beauty.

After breakfast, I pull on faded jeans
and t-shirt, head off for a walk
in ancient trees. I listen to birds sing
their centuries-old songs, remember
things that grow more beautiful with time,
like the feel of your weathered hand in mine.

—Previously appeared in a community college arts publication, and is republished here by author’s permission

Bio: Sheryl Holland