Among Her Collection of Bowls

by Laura Morefield

 

She washes the mustard-brown earthenware bowl
And meditates on the purposes
Of bowls.

They collect, offer, save, wait.

This one waited (so long)
For love and purpose.  It is homely,
Sturdy, made for rough use and chipped 

At the base so its material shows through.

She can’t recall exactly when
She inherited it—remembers it from dinners
In her distant youth.  Maybe it came to her

On the awful day of her parents’ rupture

When she was left to carry the detritus
North to half-brothers who did not attend
The parting.  Or maybe she confiscated it

Bearing some leftover or another from their house

To her home.  No matter.
In this new place, new kitchen, it is finally
At rest.  Here among the greens and linens

The tired color deepens into beauty.  Here

It holds fruit for her afternoon snack,
Offers salads to husband or tortilla chips to guests
On summer afternoons.  Humble tasks, perhaps, yet 

Sometimes she simply displays it.  Empty.  Imperfect.  Lovely.