Friday, January 8, 2010

clay pots, a poem

Clay pots
Filled with nothing
To the brim
Encompassing the fullness
The circumference
Molecules tumbling over
Making room
The worn dining room table
From another generation
Pricked like a finger
It would be the last
Soon to be replaced
And forgotten
Now is the time before the
Time has passed
Courage bolstered
Language sharp
And waiting on tongue
Moments melting away
Slippery, slidey
Gulp blink sigh
Look back
Move forward
Forward now
And begin

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