by Karen Schulte
*
It is barely there
the sky, I mean,
it is a streak of pewter,
the color of my teapot,
a battered vessel
of early morning
reverie.
*
The sky is
a polished
sheen
of grey;
it reveals
nothing
of itself;
I reveal
almost all
there is to say..,
perhaps,
more.
*
The teapot
hums
its ancient song;
water boils
to its highest note,
delivers warmth
sustenance stirs
inside
ancient walls.
*
Looked at from within,
the pot’s engravings
are still there.
Without design,
functional
to a fault,
*
its hammered surface
as intricate
an ancient code
of unknown origins
yet to be deciphered
like yesterday’s
poem still
waiting patiently
before it
unfolds.
