Teapot

I clutch at the brown paper bag

With the care and gaiety

Of an archaeologist,

Having just excavated a rare bone. 

It could be a fish, in the bag.

Bubbling and squirming 

Inside a plastic home

In the close heat. 

Or perhaps wasps,

Buzzing fuzzily inside 

A brown paper nest. 

Or if not wasps then an elephantine butterfly,

Curled into its wings

Inside a giant cocoon. 

The bag bumps on my knee:

I tighten grip and love.

Inside this bag, perhaps,

There is no animal at all!

Perhaps it is an object. An object

As inanimate, yet lovable,

As Gods sun.

The bumbling life beneath me

Slows; it is safe to see my prize. 

A teapot. 

Author's Note

Intend on adding more

Reviews

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Delightful! I have my own collection of teapots and understand it's prizeworthiness.