The third poem in a series: the poet as potter.
Common clay dug from a river bank,
Carted back in a creaking wheelbarrow,
Where it’s shoveled into lidded buckets.
In one shapeless lump, thrown on the wheel;
Spun and slowly molded into being
By the potter’s caressing, knowing hands
Into a shape of elegant design and form
Before glazed and fired in a blazing kiln.
To emerge days later from its fiery ordeal
An expression of the potter’s very soul,
To be admired and, with time, cherished.
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( “The Potter” © 2012, Poeticmeditation. All rights reserved. )