Saturday, May 15, 2004

A Poem

A Caution to the Potter's Apprentice

The sweet nectar that cures all ills
rarely drips onto the sun parched soil
from perfect pots
shaped and stamped with the master's seal.

The thirsty seeds sing the praises
of the cracked pots
rejected from the potter's hand
snuck from the pile in the corner
and put into the rough and tumble of everyday use.