The Hidden Jug

In you, ancient jug, I see

nothing and thus I

see the world.

Born in ‘66

you were bought

by the brave hands

of the barn,

to baptize their lips

with the blessings

of the simple —

the running river

rewards the sips of

the deer even as it

shuns the tempting tart

of the wineberry.

Yet condemned to reside

in a makeshift dump

and hide,

forgotten as easily

as I would a

penny on the sidewalk

and passed by eyes

of the passers-by

you were for ages.

Now here you stand,

treasured like the lamp

with many wishes to grant

when I rub away the

grime from your

transparent skin.

In you, I see

nothing and thus I

see the world,

as the blinded see more

than the ones who can

delight in the

shades of the

fallen leaf that

quickly decays.

And when you don’t

have the time

to be my scope

to the seen and unseen,

you can brew

my kombucha and

be the base to

hold my bouquets.