…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,
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.