Poets' Practice Pad

My Clay

My kiln is hot;
the pedal under my feet
bounces up and down with ecstasy
as I sit at the potter's wheel
and spin my clay, shaping
what? An urn, a vase, a jar,
an amphora? But no, my container
has to be more.
Not porcelain or fictile,
since I'll fire without
breaking, and I'm still
in the making.

My container
cannot fit to a mold;
it will be handmade,
without a pallet shaped,
nudged, pulled, flattened,
and in patience, tempered.
Never mind the coarse outside;
I fumble more with punching,
pinching, and correcting the inside,
to urge delicacy, smoothness,
and ease; so, the container can
bounce back sturdily after a tumble,
and rock back and forth, in character,
while the world repeats itself
spinning, turning,
churning, spurning
my kneaded clay.

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