The Sculptor , The Sculpted

At the feet of cloud-kissed hills, I sit holding clay on a wheel
as the flow of a nascent stream, steadies slowly my flooding thoughts
and the sound of it’s fierce fall, breaks steadily my rigid hold ,
on all things known, unknown.
My ears echo softly, this new-found calm – sun to my mist
and I wait for the clay to respond to this new touch.

My hands soon lust a form – alas too eager, impatient
I falter once more .
But the gentle clay , innocence unguarded yet aware,
has faith in the sculptor and forms to come
and the tireless wheel moves, in wisdom of
its endless timeless motion.

Slowly in glimpses I begin to understand
the sculptor and the sculpted .

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