In the potter’s shed

Dangling legs are fruitlessly kicking at the air
Our tiny toes tapping at peddles just out of reach
Finally the little pistons spin the balled earth
The ochre flesh riddled with veins of iron

Our thudding chunks are thrown eagerly, but start flying and sliding
While we watch him conjure shapes from the wet clay
Arcane art rising between dirty hands

Frantic to emulate we battle but it’s resisting definition
He tames it with water and two giant’s thumbs
Made into shallow bowls and filled with broken glass
That return from Dante’s Fire as frozen lakes
Aquamarine, turquoise, ruby, and emerald ones

At play with my stay-at-home father
In the workshop he built with weathered hands
Fingers bent and broke in laying those dusky red bricks
And the firing kiln that makes the air in here waver with heat

Aren’t fathers marvelous?
Mimicking them, we look upwards always
Ever the apprentice to the master


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