A slash of color. Blue bottles on an old table
in a dull, white room.
Your eyes go there, time after time
as the sun catches the color.
It does not matter what their purpose was,
these bottles. They held water, snake oil,
elixers, historically useful and useless.
Some have labels. Some do not.
It does not matter what they were,
what they held. You love them for their essence,
their color. A beauty in what they are,
far more than purpose. Far more than history.
as they are.
About this poem
Too often we measure our value by what we do. Not what we are.
The picture was taken in an antique shop in Cambridge, NY.