The Potter's Lament

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.

Published in "Trappings of the Years" and "Eloquence"
by Jack Huber- All rights reserved

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