Never an admirer of a pot,
Pots on the street or pot on the gallery,
Never bothered by its presence either.
Pots are of types…
The outcome of the clay and the potter.
Either sits as a show-off,
Speaks with a deformed voice,
Or ends up storage of the needs of human kind.

I came across one such pot,
Never an admirer of this pot.
Looked neat… Looked clean…
Looked spotless… Looked as if it could hold on to the water
I seldom poured in any before.
Everything on the outside
Well and fine.

She thought, he thought, and I thought
The pot is bought.
It lays on that table idle.
Should I use it to store water?
Or
Should I use it to pot some zinnias?
Or
Should I store food?

I stored food, and the food went spoilt.
I stored water, and the water turned poison.
I potted zinnias, and the root went rotted.
For the first time, I looked inside it.
Cracked and damaged,
Fungus making home.
And I admired its flaw and kept it for show.

But the pot had its will,
And a will that got it broke…
Crumbled up like an eggshell…
And crumbled up like a dust in shelves.
It chose it’s destiny…
I stay here as a witness beyond my efforts…
Now, here I say again…
Never an admirer of a pot, Never I will be.

-A Solivagant’s Shoes