If you put all my joy over all our pots together,
It would not touch how I feel about this cast-iron pot.
Let all my joy from all our pots be plopped together
and it slops around, with room, inside this iron pot.
I never thought I’d find a black utensil packed together
with a lid and poke inside and thrill to feel a pot.
When old we’ll need to lift it’s weight together
or I’ll bend beneath the iron. But today I waltz this pot.