Potter’s Hands

Fingers open like fronds
in a child’s garden
where fireflies play in ancient trees

From air to earth they dig
and raise back to sky
clods moist, waiting to form

Kneading clumps of clay, like bread,
shapes moist with longings, hurts and sunlight
A foot upon the time worn wheel… until

The amorphous vessel forms
Hands and clay are one
A Pause; a Doubt;
The inevitable surrender
of a debt to Fate.

The kiln’s fierce fire, a ravaging air,
the timing must be divined;
Not before, not after… until

The vessel rolls back the stone, cools,
And becomes flesh.

~ Maria Robson

Maria Robson is a Montreal teacher, freelance writer and translator who loves to travel and research, first hand, the nomadic life.

One Response to “Potter’s Hands”

  1. Very nice touch of the shaper of children, a teacher, watching them “become”. Isn’t it a wonder?

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