Transformation of the Jar

by Henry Groseclose


I placed a jar in Santa Fe,
And dead it was from years of drought.
It brought the rain upon itself
To spite the drought.

The jar was left in mountain glade,
Amber-tinged with frost;
And clouds it brought upon itself
Washed out the air and dust.

Glass, it warped from freezing rain,
Warped from glowing sun;
And filled with budding Aspen roots,
I lost it on the run.


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