The teapot had formed in the daydreams of the potter and stood there upon the shelf as if conjured by magic.
The glaze upon the teapot hugged the curves as honey from an overflowing pot.
The teapot was the hue of bonny sea waves upon a honeyed sand.
The teapot was solid beneath her grip, with the warmth of the clay and the tea.
The teapot reflected the light of the sun from its happy kitchen perch.
The teapot was made all the more perfect for its imperfections, rendered all the more unique.
The teapot had become all the more beautiful for the years of faithful service it gave.
The teapot was quite warm, hugged by its woollen "hat."