The Burnished Pot

A burnished pot sits on my sill
Reflecting on the summer day.
Winter sees it beaming still,
Gentle snow in fired clay;
Subtle show of iron will
In a shrouded world of grey.

Alike to versed and unversed eyes
The hand-loved stoneware humbly shines,
No beauty secret hidden lies
That only artful craft defines
Nor gaudy burlesque forms disguise
Its smooth egalitarian lines.

Uneven smothered heat may cure
And kiss with clouded fault the lip
Of unassuming clay impure;
Though potters hand may shake and slip,
Sturdy simple shapes endure
Where finer figures crack and chip.

When daylight bends beyond the hill
And lowly moonlight stars can see,
The starlit pot upon my sill,
Shines with sweet simplicity;
This humble vessel capture will
Reflections of eternity.