Loving the Potter

Loving she who takes the clay
deep from the mine and looms
great clods into fine porcelain cloth
for lace petal cups; her own delight,
and mine to see her bloom.

This weave of sheer reflective glaze
is tapestry; if fired too long
or cooled to quickly,
the loved up clay is doomed.

The shine is brightest
when simplicity,
endeavour and careful eyes
spark away the gloom.

Twice fired, twice cooled; timing,
and sharing precious sips.

Mistiming
and I arrange flowers in a cracked vase,
sweep broken tears and china chips
into the basket of my arms