I have her cup complete with chip, Crazed pattern, Nothing too ornate, just prissy pretty In its annoying details. I used to think how ugly A whole set would be And now I have it— This one runaway, surviving piece …   Some mornings, I’ll sit within the grayness of a winter’s day And hold its warmth In my cupped hands, Drinking up memories Not all unpleasant. I compose A memorial to a Mother not yet dead …   We never did get on But like old irritations, You miss the niggling pain When it’s not there. The cracked cup…