Mothers crystal vase,
secure on the shelf,
shimmering in the sun light
shinning through the window,
the etchings, diamond cut:
roses, monarch butterflies, elves,
safely frozen in the glass,
so fine, so crystaline.
A ferocious barbarian would cry
before he thought to throw it down.

I smashed the gorgeous thing while giggling.

“I had to free the elves, you see!
And let the butterflies fly!
The rosebuds cried to open and then
be let to die!”

That was all I was able to sniffle
to my Mothers baffled face when all
she could ask me was.
“Why?”.