How will they use them? the Potter asks, knowing, as his earthen mass spins and browns his hands. Will they bring their port wine to supper, or carry their grains, employ the clay vessels that befit his suffering? No, he laments. Patrons with his kiln-fired bowls and the cisterns in glaze will set upon mantles, on shelves, soon hopeful for any glance by those ambling by. Perhaps they'll be handed down through lifetimes of heirs, only to be found in crates of last effects. Still, the Potter turns his wheel, fights his sadness, and revels in his artist's vision, brethren around their table, a bouquet so matching its brilliant, hued vase, his, the gathering now transfixed in awe.
1 Comment
Karen Emery
2/16/2021 02:05:52 pm
Very good work. I really like this prose.
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
March 2021
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