I found a clay pitcher packed away
Confined by fools as a lesser vessel.
Yellowed paper crinkles with dusty bouquet
And what at first sight is dull and grey
When held in my hands and judged less
Reveals gentle colors lovely in their usefulness.
Faded glaze threaded with fine lines,
Imperfections seen in harsh sunlight
When softened at forgiving dusk,
Are gone and not brought to sight.
My fingers snag a handle chipped and scarred
I feel the rounded rim smoothed down
A side made weak by heedless touch
Rushed with liquids too hot and ice too cold.
Will the worn clay stand or leak?
With patient longing I hope for hold.
The pitcher filled, I wait and trust
It holds the clear water answer to my desire
And pours out sweet and cool to end my thirst.
© 2018 Terrye Turpin