A potter’s wheel spins with a rattle
set in motion by your long wooden stick.
I squat low on a nondescript stone
you look on from opposite.
My bare feet is red like the sand below,
As I intently try to shape
this lump of moist clay
fumbling slipping through my fingers.
I am not sure. But this time,
I want to learn how it’s done
Take my fingers in yours.
Lead this dance.
Let us together
mould a goblet of our desire
To drink deeply from this wine,
Before it vinegars.