The Clay Pot

a little clay pot
sits by the river -
a labour of love
from a potter's wheel;
now abandoned
by a weary traveller,
full of emptiness
brimming over...

it sits still
to live out its life
moment by moment.

an ordinary lump of clay,
moist with love,
fired in the furnace
of living and being,
breathes a quiet passion
to kindle spirits.

now holding
the billowing wind
for but a fleeting moment,
within,
its emptiness
comes alive with a song,
that calls distant rain clouds,
to grace its home,
waiting for thirsty friends
who stop by to drink
from the fountain
of its being,
till the last drop
is consumed.

a poor boy
holds it now
with moist eyes
and trembling hands,
to pour water
over his loved one's body,
breaking the shell
to its watery end.

some day
another potter
will gather the dust,
and fashion with love,
a little clay pot,
that will adorn the home
of a young woman,
who will carry it
on her swaying hips,
to the river side,
filling its empty shell
yet again, with life.