Steady, steady, turns the wheel
Responding to the potter's feel.
Not a wobble left or right
The ball of clay remains quite tight.
A quiet rhythm the potter keeps
In quietness the clay ball sleeps.
Until the potter wets her hands
Aware of rhythm, speed and plans.
The potter sees in the lump of clay
A vase, a bowl, her hands just play.
They coax an edge that will slowly rise
What it will be is no surprise.
The potter senses , her hands feel,
The clay responds to speed of wheel.
Up, up it rises to desired height,
Oh, no, a bubble breaks into sight.
Am I the master the potter quips
And turns the wheel with a tighter grip.
And vows the vase to be the best.
She adjusts the speed, ignores the rest.
Moisture, clay, they're all just right,
This clay must surely stand the height.
It should respond to the master's plans
And rise with rhythm of wheel and hands.
The potter gives the wheel a spin
But the weakness is hidden deep within.
Not perfect! There's an inner flaw
Not even the one potter saw.
The vessel crumbles, it's once more clay
A lump of matter, so it will stay.
It has lost its spirit, so for today
It's just a pile of unwieldy clay.
The potter pops in in a pail
She knows the clay's form will prevail.
The potter cannot have her way.
Without the master it remains just clay.
The potter feels she has lost her touch.
She mumbles and frets and says as much.
How can mere clay so stubborn be?
I'm the creator; it must obey me.
But then the potter thinks of God
The freedom of living that is allowed.
The patient potter pulls away
She'll leave creation another day.
Go down to the Potter;his tender touch
Can mold, can heal, can change so much
Labels: poetry, reflection
