Some Clay-ku

in honor of P.v.M.

        potter's touch
        pressing shapeless clay
                into life

                  spring breeze --
                  standing at the kiln
                  he wipes his brow

        under the tent
        watching over pots --
        a dragonfly lights

              hefting the vase
              as the potter watches
              her long legs

        brushing the clay from his face
        eyes alight with pleasure

                  three broken pots
                  coming from the kiln
                  and then that bowl

        dust-filled air --
        the potter molds his
        students' hands

                   out of the kiln
                   shattered completely but
                   a perfect glaze

        drying pots --
        he sees them colored
        in his mind

              with one arm
              he bends the clay slab
                      even more

        coil after coil
        the bowl takes form --
        and still that rain

                   sunlight through the doorway
                   sound of the potter's wheel

        spinning clay
        beneath a sure thumb
        opens into a bowl --
        her blue eyes fill
        with delight