A crazy glaze
of velvet green laced through with charcoal grey,
held tight in cupped hands.
She bulges at the top like a miniature Grecian urn,
then sweeps to her elegant base:
planted on the corner of my mantel.
In the lamplight
small dimples and imperfections glow.
The rim rough and squeaky: a thumbnail wide.
A line around her base fits a ring finger
I tip her upside down and stare at her bulk:
palms firmly pressing,
fingers splayed around her girth.
I rub the tips of every finger over ripples of hard clay : a tiny ridge
on her shoulder.
radiates beauty. Spidery veins webbed and tightly packed.
her crows feet, her molten skin next to my cheek:
I wrote this poem one night when my mind was too full to rest easy. . . It is pre dawn once again and I find myself on my sofa drinking calming herbal tea, looking at my beautiful pot – so simple and yet so perfect to me. She is a pot ..yes but also a memory and I like my eyes to rest a while with her every day.