Hollow

The crack was always there, fine as a hairline, waiting. Not a break not yet but a whisper of give, a knowing in the bone. Then the weight shifted, the balance tipped, and what was full became less. Not empty, but less. Hands reached for the spill, but water does not return to cupped palms. It seeks the lowest place, slips through the quiet, finds its way back to source. So I let it go. Let it carve rivers in the hollow. Let it show me what a vessel is for. ~Joanne~