Grandma’s cup a small white ghost

Grandma’s cup, a small white ghost

upon the shelf, a memory.

It held her tea, the thing she’d boast

was finest, fragile as could be.

Just one small chip, a tiny scar,

where it met the kitchen floor

during the move, a distant star

of imperfection, nothing more.

The light shines through, a milky glow,

revealing faint, internal flaws.

It sits there, holding what I know

of quiet strength, defying laws

of easy breaks. It seems to say

it holds its form, though time may crack

what’s thin and white, and light can play

with all the things it can't give back.