The ancient potter
early at his wheel -
wantonly watched
by the village women.
Each day they come to see
what may be
the last pot he throws.
That pot will be
a special prize,
a collector's item.
Each morning he slowly
shapes the clay.
His calloused hands
gentle and knowing
caress the wet mass as
he gradually spins
the wheel faster.
His face mirrors
his concentration
and contentment.
His steady smile is
an invitation from another world.
Thumbs widen the base of the pot
as fingers search
for the magic spot
were pots are given soul.
His hands transmit life
and another pot is done.
Perhaps his last pot
will be his very best,
prized not because it was last,
but the best.
And tomorrow morning
the village women
will again watch in awe
as the old potter completes
yet another masterpiece in clay.