Potters Hands
Her Dignity a phoenix of red crinoline
Shawl of poise gentle as a storm
The rain beckons me to seek shelter
Her arms bring a test
Rodin chisels his relished stone
What gate shall we enter?
Violin concerto calms the fire
Duality needs balance
Eagle wings soar with ease
Our integrity blends the colors
Red with blue, yellow with black
We dance on flames of fine marble
I know you have suffered
I know you suffer
The test is a labyrinth
These miles of forlorn road
Streets where doorways tempt
Loneliness like a kiln
Morals and ethics of green jade
I am the crude clay that must be formed
We meet like a wild wilderness
The sky smiles like a mother’s apron
It seems purpose is like Greek fate
We are formed into a grand plan
The Potters hands at work
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Added by Poetry Lover
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