There was a pottery store

Down the road

Now it would be trendy

Like espresso

Yet it wasn't trendy

Because some thought

The owner was a crochety old man

The truth was

He was ancient

Yet all in the same breath

He had more energy

Than a million two-year olds

And his mind was a swirl of colors

Not the usual gray matter

In the store

There was terra cotta

Blue glaze

Boxes, cups, bud vases

Flower pots, honey jars

Majolica

Hand painted daisies

After angels lit

And some slunk off

The store was raided

Hard clay hurled

Pieces lay in tiny shards

The ancient of days

Wept and allowed his son to

Enter the store to

Salvage the pieces

Blood came from

The places the pointy

Pots pierced

So much was broken

By the afternoon

He lay on the wooden floor

And cried "It is finished!"

An orange orb appeared

Over the place

But more radiant

Than the sun was the Son

And one by one

The pots were pieced together

Better than any super glue

There were no cracks