The pitcher sits on the washstand,
it’s white porcelain slightly crackled with age.
The lines are simple, perfectly proportioned,
lovely to look at, balanced well for pouring.
Below it sits a matching bowl,
equally aged and useful, a holding place
for a simplicity that has been lost,
replaced with more complicated things.
Something is gained. Something is lost.
That is the way of the world.
The story of your life captured
in this tiny vignette, brushed by morning light.
You are a different sort, more apt to throw away the complicated
than the simple, a craver for less rather than more,
taught by distress that less lasts, rare as diamonds, it is still
a hard lesson well learned.
About this poem
I love simple.