The Old Clay Pots
October 6th, 2008
The Old Clay Pots
The old clay pots where flowers used to grow
Are chipped and faded, empty useless shells.
They’re stacked out back in crooked, wobbly rows,
No longer filled with flowers sweetest smells.
The boys nextdoor will sometimes take a few
And set them up and smash them with their stones.
It’s just a thing that boys will sometimes do.
They shatter like some dried-up, ancient bones.
But yesterday I thought I heard a song;
At least that’s what I like to think I thought.
A pair of love-birds must have come along
And built their nest inside an empty pot.
There’s one tall stack I can’t quite see behind,
But if I could I’m sure of what I’d find.