The Vessel
Here is the clay
Lump on a wheel
Nothing to feel
Everything blurred.
Around it spins
Nothing assured
Now hope is stirred
Waiting for sight.
The potter’s hands
With gentle might
Begins the rite
Shaping the clay.
It takes the form
From hands obey
And trust someday
Value to hold.
When shape is done
No more to mold
From fire comes gold
Fit for a king.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment