THE OLD IRON POT

THE OLD IRON POT

It was just an old iron pot
as though someone forgot,
turned up on its side to hide,
masking that in which it took pride,
silent as we kids nearby did play,
just waiting there for it's special day.

How to tell it was hard to say
but this was no ordinary day.
Begun with a bath the night before
then fresh clothes and on out the door.
And there was Gran righting the pot
for some reason I knew not what.
Kindling was laid 'round real tight
ready for the match struck to light.

Some kind of ritual it appeared to me.
it's unfolding I had stopped to see.
Peering over the pots edge to take a look
at first I thought what are we about to cook?
It sat full of water waiting to heat
with a pile of cloths near my feet.

The mystery only seemed to grow
as warming, the pot began to glow.

Gran then scooped up that dirty pile;
looked over to me and began to smile.
She must have seen my puzzled face
and with her gentle charming grace
said, "Wunering what's up today?
"Yes ma'am" was all I could think to say.
And then with a paddle she churned
and stirred so's not them clothes to burn.

She chuckled as she said to me,
"This how's we get You’uns clothes so clean,
this here's my old warshin machine."

And so that day I learned about an old iron pot

a lesson long ago I've kept and haven't forgot. 

John Mullinax Mar., 2008