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