Vase............................................18

I wouldn't pick flowers,
but, you hand me a vase;
beautiful it was -
days pass for hours
through its glass.

So carefully I took it,
and, wondering looked,
bright flowers picked,
made it a colour packet.

Then you wanted it back:
said "chuck it!", but your hands were slack.
It fell, broke.
I feel its lack;
I, and the flowers