by Bryant Burroughs

John 2  Jesus said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water,” and they filled them to the brim. Then he told them, “Now draw some from them and take it to the headwaiter.”

We are more ancient than our captors 
who stole us from rocks older than stars.
We who were formed on the Third Day, 
lorded over by Sixth Day creatures. 
They chipped and shaped us into jars, 
water-pots to wash filthy hands and feet.   
We, shamed by their dirt and grime,
long for the mountains that birthed us.
Only the mountains know we’re weeping.
Only the mountains see our true nature.

His mother asked his help, and he smiled.
Mother, here? It’s only a wedding.
Mother, now? It’s not time – you know that.
Mother, is it that important to you?
And she smiled.  
She could have asked anything
and he would have given it.
We gasped as water fresh from the well –
cold, clear, clean - 
streamed into our grimy swill,
like a fierce wind whipping through trees    
without disturbing their leaves.     
And we teemed anew
as on the Third Day. 

Let the wedding guests rejoice!
Let the mountains rejoice!
Let the pots give voice to joy!

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Bryant Burroughs writes stories and poems as reminders of those things he hopes are real and true. He and his wife, Ruth, live in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats.

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