A walk through snow becomes a small act of imagination here. The speaker notices the neat hollows that form in the snow around blueberry stems, and those empty dips stir something old: the urge to collect. Almost at once the poem leaps from a bare winter hillside to a museum full of pots and bronzes, then to a plaza with a fountain.
The link is emptiness. Pots are made to hold things, and the pits in the snow are shaped like holes waiting to be filled. The fountain is the sharpest image: it "accommodates / every coin-sized absence," as if every small wish or loss people toss into it finds a place to rest. The poem's title, "Vessels," ties these together.
The mood is quiet, curious, and a little wistful. The speaker doesn't explain the urge, only lets it surface. The closing ellipsis leaves the thought open, as though the list of hollows and containers could keep going.