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 | 
