Pail

A new pail,
Straight, tight,
Brushed to a cold
Silver shine,

Soon learns
Other ways:
Once filled with
Oats or ashes,

Grayed by rain,
Its handle
Bent, its
Bottom dented,

Grown peaceful
And plain,
It becomes
A real pail.

All the Small Poems and Fourteen More
Valerie Worth


Someday I will stop trying to pretend I am a new pail, and become comfortable with becoming real.