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.

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.