Work wood on a potter’s wheel, mold it,
warmly glowing with oil eased in so it
forgets that it was never soil, never clay.
Here, this is for you. I hope you like it.
The wire gliding down the edge, formed to cut
a curve, a spout to pour like a pitcher,
not water, but cloth. Pound dye into wood, but
pound gently, leaving spots on its
smooth brownness. Through the side
run flowing bolts. The bowl knits
autumn-shaded shawls, plum scarves,
olive rivers billowing out of Here it
is like the porridge pot that keeps
cooking ‘til the moment you tell it to cease.
Spread the word!