This was a spillover poem from the January 3, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was prompted by minor_architect and sponsored out of the general fund. minor_architect wondered about a magical jar for preserving things ... which there is, but it turned out differently than I expected. This poem belongs to the series Fiorenza the Wisewoman, and you can read more about that on the Serial Poetry page.
-- a sonnet
In Fiorenza's cottage is a jar
Of humble clay, its glaze the quiet blue
Of summer skies, its lid locked sound and true,
Upon the mantel where the dear things are.
No knife can scratch its surface, nor chips mar
The smoothness of its finish; naught can skew
The jar in its repose. It stays in view,
As luminous and distant as a star.
It holds no leaf nor flower in its clasp
But memories of women dead and gone:
Carmela, Marietta in her grasp;
And others past, each one a paragon
Of driving death away from life's warm gasp;
In whose shade Fiorenza labors on.