poems
spontaneously generate
out of silence
like the pot
that comes from
the potter’s hands
& the spinning wheel.
the potter’s heart
enlightens the water
that
suffuses in the clay.
his feet keep the tempo
of the rolling sky
of the reeling stars.
his eyes
see with
polished fingers as
his mind
shapes a form
that never was.
when the making is done,
the pot perfects itself in
holy fire;
as the potter fills himself
with earthy silence.