The Chipped Rim

I opened up the cabinet door,

and searched for something plain.

A mug I hadn’t seen before,

for years, it felt like then.

Its picture faded, soft and blurred,

a beach, a childish smile.

But on the rim, a word,

a chip, small and vile.

And with that mark, the ache returned,

a sudden, heavy blow.

A lesson I had thought unlearned,

that grief can ebb and flow.