Updated: Mar 24
An Object Poem; Edited 03/24/2022
handle, bottom, basin.
turning wheels, beads of sweat.
stained hands mold the hump of clay.
rustic beauty. craftsmanship.
imperfect. imprinted. incomparable
artist, artisan, potter.
whatever the shape, my fingers make do
round, square, smooth, or curved
they curl ‘round your protective walls
enclosing your contents in my palms.
cozy. comfort. close.
5 a.m. alarms buzz. morning dawn glints, eyes squint
slowly, sleepy hands wrap around, deep breath in. bless that first sip on my tongue. deep breath out.
the rush begins.
caffeinate. energize. awake. alert.
answer calls, write papers, read emails,
*yawn* 4’o’clock. midday pick-me-up.
blends of cardamom, black tea, clove.
shot of espresso.
local barista, messy bun and septum pierced,
draping foam atop the rim in
fluid motion. dust of cinnamon.
soft buzz of customers. heartwarming moment away from the office. exotic.
night sinks in. end of day.
cozy clothes. doors locked. quiet. still.
this one grey, small, simple
etched-in trimmings at its base.
thrift store, picked out just for me, by me. small chip in the handle. well-worn, much-loved.
lavender and passionflower relaxing, rejuvenating, tranquil. water boils, kettle steaming, cloth bag steeping, tie the string around the handle for safekeeping.