117

One Pot to Another

Here is our mystery: that the deep heart

busy molding all its images to bless or blame

still can bring itself to love some outer thing,

acknowledging a parallel to its own solitude.

Finished from the wheel, all pots

sing “I,” but to the potter’s tune.

And two pots, meeting on a stranger’s shelf,

make subtle discord

if both were not turned by masters.

As we do, who are most ourselves

only when we clearly answer

another potter’s working song.