Pottery. A poem.

The starting from a lump of dirt, I always

understood that part. I mean, pretty

obvious, the soft, unformed

places, inside and out.


The shaping, molding, pulling,

not so much. After

all, who can imagine what a piece of

nothing can be

besides the one who holds the cold, wet

disappointment in His hands


Who can say, truly, that His fingers don’t tremble, even

a smidgen

as the great wheel keeps on

turning, the gray lump yielding

to a uniquely predestined shape


I would quake at the task,



a cracked base

a crooked handle

a hole in the inkwell

so the story can’t ever be written…

…except that in the calloused steady


hands of the expert, the form takes

shape, the thought, no,

the dream

of who I am and who



becomes real with each dizzying spin

until the breath of life fills us and we are

each of us

poured out.




2 thoughts on “Pottery. A poem.

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