Posted by magicalmysticalteacher
Vases made of mud must pass
Quickly through the looking-glass;
They are bouncing with the strain.
The white pitcher groans again
In a rhythm dark and deep
Of a work that will not keep
Till your dallying is done.
See, bright smears of morning sun
Lie heavy on the table!
Sing of them, if you’re able,
Though your tongue may clang like brass—
Do not let this moment pass!
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #240
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #4 at Poets United