The Family Urn Poem by Edwina Reizer

In the corner of a white marbled hall
stood the most beautiful urn.
For years it was handily polished
and oh how it did yearn
to give forth the stories of all its years
to all those whose eyes did turn
to marvel at the sight of it
and how it had been made.
But the stillness of all things inanimate
kept its stories untold and staid.

It remembered how it had been the receptacle
of long stemmed roses and fern,
tended to by members of the family,
each of them taking their turn
to collect them from their gardens
and arrange them with great pride.
It felt all eyes looking its way
to see what it held inside.
Surely it would always stay this way,
forever and a day.

But no, 'twas not to be, you see.
For one in the family said,
'It's held enough flowers through the years.
Let us use it for our dead.'
And so one by one as the souls moved on
their ashes were placed in the urn.
And the resting place for all who had tended it
would no longer have concern
for the white marble hall or the polish they used.
And the urn became confused.

Was it not my place to be admired
on every single day?
If I could tell my stories
oh what I could say.
Some who I'm holding were pleasant folks,
others were quite mean.
Some were lax with their duty
to always keep me clean.

Some were old when they came to me
and some did not live long.
And my purpose has changed drastically
which to me seems wrong.
For I long to hold red roses again
and once again learn
what it feels like to be beautiful
and dignify an urn.