Spilt Hope

Walking down the well-trod path

Balancing my plain, clay pitcher

Brimming with second-rate wine

Indulging expensively

Stumbling on an upturned stone

Shattering clay lies in pieces

Exposing the precious contents

Seeping into the every-thirsty earth

Stealing it all away

Grabbing at the fleeing liquid

Cursing the wet, revealing eyes

Picking up the ugly shards

Fingering the jagged edges

Returning home to bury them

A couple drops left