The Potter’s Solitude

In quiet reverence, the potter works alone,

Breathing life into earthen form, a delicate tone.

The wheel spins round, a gentle, soothing sound,

As the vessel takes shape, fragile, yet profound.

The marketplace becomes a stage, a throne of judgment true,

Where the potter’s work is scrutinized, with critics anew.

No flattery or praise can sway the potter’s heart,

For in solitude, the true art takes its part.

The earthenware resists, a stubborn, hardened form,

The potter’s hands, a gentle, yet firm, transform.

The passersby, with priorities astray,

Neglect the potter’s voice, and drown out the say.

But the potter’s voice is like the ocean’s roar,

A primal sound that echoes, forever more.

It’s the voice of truth, that speaks from the soul,

A voice that whispers secrets, and makes the heart whole.

In the garden of love, the potter blooms, a rare find,

A beautiful creation, one of a kind, so divine.

The potter’s art is a labor of love and care,

A testament to the beauty that’s beyond compare.