By Shem Onderi
You’re designed to hold, hot or cold,
A constant presence, defining the kitchen’s soul.
Each family member enjoys the meals you serve,
A testament to your enduring purpose, your worth to preserve.
You persevere through heat, washed in scalding water,
Scoured to stay clean, inside and out, a true culinary daughter.
You never disappoint, a cook’s desire is to create,
But it’s not your wish to serve half-baked, for the baker determines the fate.
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The amount of heat pressed upon you, a delicate dance,
A balance of flavors, a symphony to enhance.
But what of your feelings, when flames engulf your frame?
If only you could speak, and share the secrets of your metallic frame.
Your shape is designed to hide, deep, with a holding bend,
A haven for the baker, where flavors can ascend.
You never leak, a promise kept, a bond of trust,
For if you failed, you’d be rendered useless, a relic to rust.
You balance on the cooking stones, beaten by the cooking stick,
As food is stirred, and flavors mix, a wondrous trick.
The varied spices that have danced within your walls,
Have you ever tasted any, or are you just a hollow shell?
As you age, a new pot is acquired, a replacement in sight,
But if the baker is not satisfied, she’ll repair you, make you right.
She’ll nail you, fix the leaks, and restore your former glory,
But if you’re beyond repair, you’ll be left to rust, a story.
The scrape dealers come, and take you away,
Among other rejects, a sad, metallic gray.
Some have never known the fire, but served in other ways,
Their stories untold, their purposes unfulfilled, in endless days.
But even in rejection, there’s a chance to be reborn,
To be recycled, remade, and serve once more.
Perhaps as a wheelbarrow, another pot, or spoon,
Your metal will live on, a new life, a new tune.
So here’s to you, my pot, a tribute to your might,
A celebration of your service, your endurance, your light.
You may be just a pot, but you’re so much more,
A symbol of nourishment, of love, of life, forever in store.
