That chipped plate the faded flower

That chipped plate, the faded flower,

was 'good china' in our house.

We'd save it for an unknown hour,

or when a quiet, hungry mouse

Crept to the table, meaning me,

for birthday cake, or just a treat.

Cracked and thin, for all to see,

it made the ordinary sweet.

My partner laughed, 'That's not how it works,'

when I explained the careful way

we'd set it out, past all the quirks.

Just an old plate, for any day.

But for us, it held a special grace,

a fragile hope, a small belief.

That chipped ceramic, in its place,

brought comfort, though it brought no brief.