Little pot.

What do you hold, little pot

Leaves lush and green?

Your soil dark as prayers,

reaching for the sun,

Helios’s breath blesses your

Olived ringlets.

What do you hold, little pot,

Is it echoed longing or just the stubborn will that makes you refuse to stop climbing?

You sit there, unremarkable

and yet, inside you, worlds unfold,

slowly, quietly,

like a dream that anchors 

itself in the Night

turning soil into stars.