|
Hours of painful work
at the hum of the pottery wheel.
Singing songs of
comfort
Just right, her hands craft
a piece so pure.
With love, she lifts it from
its place. She holds it
up to the light.
Fired to perfection in dreams,
painted with
lines by day.
Her favorite colors, shades of
sacred blues, lavenders,
pure whites.
A perfect piece, the best
she ever made.
She sets it on rough pine boards,
in the safest place
she has ever come to know.
Knocked from its shelf
By a purposeful or
careless hand.
A moment of
anguished mystery
she would never
understand.
|
