The Pitcher

In autumn colors orange and gold and red
Like the fire from which it was born
That flame which o’er the artist sweat and bled
Meant for a shelf or table to adorn
A flaw just one that brings the object scorn
And for one errant line it is reject
But he the vessel for his own elects
 
Why bring the reject with him to his house
Was it the flaming colors that made him choose
Was it a gift he brought home for his spouse
Did it adorn a shelf or was it used
Did he gaze upon the glass and muse
In his own mountain home could he foreknow
This fire would burn on distant peaks of snow
 
From that home in West Virginia’s peaks
Now home in Salt Lake City’s mountain sprawl
Years and generations slowly eke
Artifacts lost decayed in aging crawl
But here the vessel sits surviving all
Through grasp of four generations hands
Not returning aging glass for sands