don't be afraid, she will break you.

he makes pots.

smoothest grays, greens, mortal

clay to be molded, to be filled

to fit inside someone’s hands.

with careful spinning, the potter

breathes low into his basin,

sealing the lid of the tenuous urn

shut.

{Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.}

do you doubt the craftsman knows

the gentle hand, reaching up

aching to meet the glaze?

he is never hasty.

he knows her well.

so what then, God forbid,

if a finger slips?

{If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.}

the pot must surrender,

toppling down to unrelenting cement.

and it will stay, new

crack veining through its center;

she traces the path with

a passing pointer finger;

{Oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel.}

but, in the fall,

the potter’s breath distends,

and through the crack, swells

until the broken thing is

lucent.

so

then alone

can they see—

So then

alone

can they

see

{Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity!}