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1.
A flower pot lies
On cement steps,
Hardly the picture of scorn,
Pale and white and oddly smudged.
When ornamental light
Receive its own bright damage,
The circular carcass
Is solid and relevant,
Though holding flowers
No more and alone.
2.
A hanging pot lies
In memory,
(its former perch, a dim jewel)
Sealed terracotta,
Majolica, the depth of peat,
So as to breathe, yet breathless
Under the porch
Where damp leaves commune
In Friday morning drizzle.
To know it is to know
The range and breadth,
Of why the pot lies
Below security,
While few remember its
Original position,
Or African violets
Embellishing the eaves?
Lamont Palmer
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