House of the Black Glass

They are pure shape,
these black glass vases
my mother gave me.
They lie under the flowers
I have picked, gifts of shadow
where there are no roots,
holding up the empty stems
when the petals are gone,
holding up their empty selves
when the stems are gone,
until, fallen in shards,
when even the house is gone,
their still impervious glass
will hold, piece by piece,
the visions we have had
of beauty in a serviceable thing.