My ceramic mug may not have worth, yet…
when filled the warmth flows through my hands
transporting me through a revolving past.
I behold the potter’s wheel turning endlessly,
and remember cold lumps of clay molded into beautiful vessels.
The artist’s face I can no longer perceive.
I am inundated with memories of strangers,
discussions of politics and strife,
quiet moments, lingering melodies.
A time when possessions were not of importance,
large drafty houses desired lodging;
guitars almost a necessity.
I recall folk not to be considered successful by today’s beau ideal;
yet full of ideas and eloquence, rich in knowledge and compassion.
This old mug was a reject given by the artist as a memento.
In the solitude of evening it overflows with memories
that intertwine throughout my life.
It is a lingering fragment of my past
A familiar friend during uncertainty.