The Potter's Hands

The clod of sullen clay begins to turn.
This soul-less, lowest element of Earth
has shape breathed into it. I see the birth
of meaning, structure, form. I watch dirt learn.

Your hands work deftly, with a quiet grace.
They understand the clay, and seem to know
just how to find its strength, to help it grow.
They tease it, ease its eager reach for space.

How I revere your skill! Your wise blue eyes
have seen that what I am is not my sum,
and look to what it is I may become.
I need to know the thrill of one more throw.
Knead into me your "yes", ease out my "no" -- 
your gentle hands can mould me as I rise.