An Old Teapot

My handle is fragile,
Delicate, at best,
And my once sharp spout
Is now rounded at the edges.
My lid no longer fits.
It’s been eroded to bits,
And the once lovely rim
Has long since been chipped.
The design on my belly
Was once of a tree,
Whose branches extended
Into little, pink leaves.
But the leaves have all fallen
Over many an autumn,
These bare, grey branches
Never again to blossom.
My clear, glossy finish
Has all fogged over,
And dust lies in heaps
Upon my old shoulders,
Where it’s collected for years
As I have sat so still.
Long has it been
Since I’ve felt the thrill
Of heat flowing through me,
Though I remember
It as it were yesterday.
Twas a frigid December.
The old woman sat
Huddled in wool
Next to a fireplace
That scared off the cold.
She turned the last page
And closed the book,
Then got to her feet
And took a look
At what teas she had
In her cupboard that day.
She chose something sweet
And started my way.
I’ve remembered the scent
From that day forth.
It was so cold outside,
But I remember warmth.
My edges are worn
But I don’t mind.
They were made this way
O’er the fondest of times.


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