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.