The calabash wide open,
drips move  
down the canvas
source unseen,
around the bowl
into the bowl
heading toward a shelf of color.
 
Sitting on a bench
I am present
to a ribbon of bowls
running along the wall
like favorite cards I clip
to a string draped
from door hinge to door hinge
across my living room wall
reminding me
of friends
and moments
and hope.

These bowls - 
gourd gifts 
which first are food
then hold sustenance
after their flesh is eaten
and their shells dry -
receive again
and again
whatever comes,
offering
to those who scoop
or drink
or taste
what has been given
to be given.
 
They're brave,
these bowls,
taking what comes
letting go what’s needed.