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.

IMG_5459.JPG

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

IMG_5460.JPG

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

IMG_5458.JPG

I would quake at the task,

life

death

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

IMG_5461.JPG

hands of the expert, the form takes

shape, the thought, no,

the dream

of who I am and who

you

are

becomes real with each dizzying spin

until the breath of life fills us and we are

each of us

poured out.

IMG_5462.JPG

*****

IMG_5472.JPG
*****