Loving the Potter

Loving the Potter

Loving she who takes the clay
deep from the mine and looms
great clods into fine porcelain cloth
for lace petal cups; her own delight,
and mine, to see her bloom.

This weave of sheer reflective glaze
is tapestry, but if fired too long,
or cooled to quickly,
the loved up clay is doomed;

The shine is brightest
when simplicity,
endeavour, and careful eyes
spark away the gloom.

Twice fired, twice cooled; timing,
and sharing precious sips.
Mistiming,
and I arrange flowers in the cracked vase,
or sweep broken tears and china chips
into the basket of my arms.

Loving she who unfolds the cloth.
It unwraps her,
handing me this precious gift
in the clay love of her art.

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