The Potter

the potter

earth is dust and dust is clay.


clouds are the intoning bell,

from what my quiet heart can tell.


descend upon my coupled dust,

one is mud, another rust,

heaviness will take its toll.


fall upon me, barren, cracking,

fill me to the trembling brim.

just as sudden, on a whim

leave through fissures, run away.


if earth is merely clay,

and softly ringing clouds

are but her welling water,

then, lo, god is a potter,

and a vessel I must be.


shaped by gentle power

and dexterity of artful hands.

like a god,

your hands descend

placing chaos at an end,

craft a life from rawest soil.


here stand i,

bereft and fractured,

petals scattered at my feet,

brittle and descant reminders

telling each the wilted stories,

death of flowers, dampened glories,

till i stand, abject, bereft.


i, the empty vessel,

without hope and without will,

long to give my clay back to the earth,

who is her hymnal.

dust to dust, a reverent gift

from which some other’s seed may grow,

luckier than i to know

something more than hollow grief.


giveth form around this chamber,

taketh that which would make full,

leave but wailing echos calling,

song of failed recompense,

haunting hymn on rasping breezes,

carry to the realm of absence,

heaven’s fabled cries,

there, the truth lies,

how peculiar.


quickly, lend me something mending,

faith, a drug to blush all others,

scent of hope and self-delusion,

place within, where i am empty,

i believe you’ll come fulfill me,

potter god, who did create me,

if i’m true, than so must you,

just like faith, a god so clever,

when i need it more than ever,

nowhere are you to be found.


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