Thursday, December 24, 2009

December 24th

'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through my house
were Rosie's Hanukkah presents
a toy bone and mouse.

And on one of the tables
next to her toy bone
was a cup of Mike Kline's
of my very own.

A Britt, a Tanner,
a Flannigan-Bond,
a Theriault, a Tinnaro,
and the list goes on
of potters whose cups
I have at least one.

But though all the cups
all equally fine
somehow none can compare
to the feel of a Kline.

They each have their form
their whimsy and glaze
They are evenly thrown
and garner high praise.

But tonight as I sit
In my chair and recline
Watching TV
And drinking my wine
The wind is howling
The cheescake divine
Some how nothing compares
to the feel of a Kline.

Merry Christmas.

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