A Tribute to Potter John

 …through the wanderings of blight 

    Potter-John’s fingers had, once,

                     their traction on everyone. 

Then, palm deep lowered into new clay,

     soft as a child-soul,

     soil porous with the colors of Light,

            clay from the clouds, 

                           he would say, 

transforming each hour.

            Who can say otherwise? 

The kindness of shade and shadow

cast from the tallest magnolia tree,

    leaves abounding,

                     in his palms.

 His finger-gates fluttering,

               rounding the clouds,

               from one season to the other; 

each hand harboring a gracious sight-Light, 

     turning cup-rims into a crowns.

             Who can say otherwise of Potter John?

Even as Potter-John lay dying

from a Drunk’s spinning car wheels 

      his fingers turned the soil into a prayerful cloud.