I found some treasures at an antique show this weekend and took great pleasure in bargaining for them. One of them, a small hand-forged pitcher, asked me to write a poem about it. So I made a little 160-character ditty for Monkey Man’s Sunday 160 challenge. You’ll find others on his blog here.
The Tin Pitcher
Call me old,
tarnished,
rusted and flawed,
but in the confines
of my battered state,
I am a microclimate
for God
where flowers grow:
apparently, my fate.
9 comments:
not a bad fate to birth such beauty...you know...smiles.
Beautiful pitcher. Beautiful poem.
what a compliment!
Beautifully rebirthed to a microclimate. Such a cool find and great write. Thanks for playing along with the Sunday 160, Chris, I am honored.
Lovely! I love the idea of being a microclimate for God.
Absolutely gorgeous!
A philosophical Tin Pitcher?
Loved it Chris....G
What an amazing and beautiful thought....this is inspiring!
:-)
I wonder who held the old pitcher and what it was like at the table where it was used. Now it is a vessel of another kind. Nice, Chris.
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