You are a terracotta flowerpot,
Sturdy, not particularly large at first view,
But surprisingly capacious.
You define yourself by the things that you produce,
Acting as though your largest,
Longest project, green shoots sprouting
In all sorts of glorious (and troublesome) directions now,
Will naturally overshadow you.
Multifarious nutritious things
Owe their starts to your solidity.
Even when you appear empty, you resonate
Potential, making a glorious chime
When something strikes you,
However gently.
You are, by dictionary definition,
Porous. Absorbing many things.
According to Wikipedia,
Terracotta is only named for practicalities
(Pipes, tiles, pots, things to take the weather),
Never the things to touch the
Potter’s wheel, to dance and whirl,
Then sit still forever, martyrs to dust.
Sometimes glazed, sometimes rough,
Surprisingly tough, taking a variety of shades,
Sometimes brightly painted,
Other times revelling in your natural hue,
You exude brightness, even in the darkest times.
You have known earth, and water,
Lay quietly for a long time.
You were brought into the air,
Given shape by clever, loving hands,
Come to your first strength
By going through the fire,
Your colour coming from the iron you carry
In quietly busy hands.
I once told you about your steely core,
Your blush proving that
As much as your ringing tone.
In your time you’ve rescued
Many living things that would otherwise
Have choked or starved,
And doubtless will again, and again,
Lending your strength and curve
To preserving and lifting the burgeoning
Into something wonderful.
There are many plastic imitations out there,
That do their best,
But they are not you,
Would never survive what you have,
And – you hope – will never need to.
And when it comes to the next fresh, green thing,
Sometimes flowery, sometimes fruity,
That you bring forth,
I look forward to telling you:
It’s beautiful.
Because it will be.
Because it always is.
Because you are.
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| Image source: The Worm That Turned |
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