A Potter’s Tale
By Christine Hare Tate
Said the potter to the clay,
“A lovely vase you’ll be one day.”
He plopped the clay upon his wheel,
A shapeless mass which lacked appeal.
The potter began to shape and spin
To the lump of clay’s chagrin.
“I can’t stand the pain,” the clay insisted,
But the potter just persisted.
“You won’t have to wait too long,
The kiln will make you very strong.”
“But potter, the fire I can’t face,
I heard it is a dreadful place.”
The potter said, “Please trust in me,
A work of beauty you shall be.”
When the clay baked for awhile
He retrieved it with a smile.
After many months had passed,
The vase went on display at last.
When a mirror cast its reflection,
The vase was shocked by such perfection.
The potter glanced at it once more,
As someone bought it from his store.
When he handed them the vase,
They showered him with words of praise.
The potter then went on his way
To mold another piece of clay.
‘But the jar he was making did not turn out as he had hoped,
so he crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over.’