A coffee mug
has a little bug
imposed on its exterior
by a potter, long ago.


I thought
it was a shell
‘til I decided to look closely
after years of sipping
from the edge
of its interior.


So much nearby
I pay so little heed
‘til something in me
suggests that I inquire.


And though my revelations
are modest and don’t shake the earth
they sometimes make my world go ‘round
when it seems that it has stopped.

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply