Potter's Wheel

There are three things you can count on:
sun, shadow, and the play among them
It is all the fall of light and imagination.
It is not light and dark, but light and story.
The story-teller always with the cool, wet clay spinning in her hands.
The war, then, is for the potter’s wheel.
The fight is voice.
Who will tell the story?
The lips of the story teller whisper light and cast shadows.

I dress you in white and adorn you with rhyme
My silver whisper seeks your darkest places, and occupies.
I am trespasser, gold-clad and innocent.
I hold you forever in the light of my memory and in the dark of my nights.
The humiliation, I cast to shadow-wolves, forgotten.
(My love, most merciful and senseless)
I remember you as you never were and as you always will be.
I allow the scent of snapshots of you to fill the room
(even as I bar the rough hands of real visitors).
I raise myth, life-sized, to your countenance, trapped in tenderness.
You will always be the child within you.

I am at the potter’s wheel.