Waiting for the Flowers

Waiting for the Flowers


A handmade pot is wonderful.

What thoughts it can conceal.

A record of the voices

That surround the potter’s wheel

Are captured in its curvature,

As lovingly he turns

His offspring in his slimy hands,

Then in the hot kiln burns.

Now fixed for life, it takes upon

Itself a special form;

Receptacle for many things,

For liquids cool or warm.

But, as the nights grow longer,

And the days speed by, like hours,

The pot draws to its destiny.

It’s waiting for the flowers.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer July 2013

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