Oh potter, your hands

Oh potter, your hands

Oh potter, your hands

you knead into my skin

like a lover’s caress

you write me into shapes

like clouds inhabiting rain

you nudge my edges

like a woman in her forty’s

you linger around my curves

like life pauses before its last breath

You drench into my parched cracks 

like raindrops germinate petals

You nurture my emerging soul

like a thing of beauty cherished

You picture me cupped with fingers

like a Sufi infuses suspense in words

You pinch me into shapes of nature

like a mother wills her unborn child

You immerse me into a red fired kiln

like Sun mesmerizes morning bowls 

You greet me with colors of glaze

like hope breaks the darkest rage

You bake divinity into my pores

like a prayer burrows into centuries

You erase my myriad shapes; recreate

like autumn buries itself to be reborn

You inscribe tender poetry on my skin

like a whisper of the beloved’s breath

You wrinkle me with a careless abandon

like a brush stroke that defines boldness

You hide me in the barn for yourself 

like the fire holds embers deep within

You stack my stubborn colors in pots

like a witch stirs infinity into magic potions

Oh potter, your hands

Oh potter, your hands

Oh potter, your hands