On a wooden shelf
a teapot waits—
quiet, still, forgotten by the hurried day.
Its clay remembers warm hands,
its spout the gentle arc of pouring,
its belly the rise of fragrant steam.
Yet it asks for nothing.
Purpose, like water, comes in its own time.
For now it rests,
glazed in afternoon light,
a vessel of patience.
And when the moment arrives—
when someone lifts the lid
to breathe in possibility—
the teapot will pour
exactly what it was meant to give.
No comments:
Post a Comment