Tales of the Potter

Like a billows breathing in and out    
Goes the mortal bit of clay -    
As the immortal potter there within    
Turns nighttime into day.    
   
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He carefully molds each pot in turn,    
Then waits for the day -    
The pot will recognize it self    
As the potter molding clay.    
   
******  
   
I saw a potter at his wheel    
No clay sat there upon -    
A voice behind the vale said,    
"That pots forever gone."    
   
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It was molded, fashioned, finished    
In an age that's long gone by -    
If you chance to travel inward    
You might find it in that sky.  
   
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The potter molds the earthen clay    
As the wheel spins its turn    
One hand inside the pot    
So not to fracture the urn.    
   
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The wheel spins to form the clay    
As the potter hums his tune    
Creating springtime in its soul    
From out the desert dune.    
   
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The potter creates the perfect pot
As his wheel turns and spins
He whacks and smacks the clay
While his hand supports within.

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The potters work is never done  
His wheel turns forever  
Keeping track of all the souls  
Borrowed from the Creator.  
   
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To create an impeccable pot  
After shaping out the clay   
The pot must be forged in heat  
Glazed for a perfect display.  
 
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To find the proper clay  
The consistency must be right  
The clay must have a desire  
To be remolded as a pot.  
 
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The potter uses all his skill  
And never once complains  
How difficult the clay to mold  
Befitting his domain.  
 
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When the clay is perfectly molded
Into a creation of love
The pot and potter become as one
As seen from heaven above.

******

The clay never to return
To its desert sand
But remain forever as love
In the potters hand

******

So concludes the potters tale
On the wheel of life to spin
If you ever desire the potter -
He awaits for you within.

- Finis -