the master potter

his hands trembled just slightly
his smile showed his face wrinkle
his eyes only betrayed
the really young age of his soul

clear and blue and full of light
his yes were often washed
with the colors used to paint his pots
the colors he kept alive from old days

his voice candid as the voice of a child
he told us a part of his story
one cold rainy day in Oboga
when he made us feel close to the earth


his gifts came onto him through hard work we call art;
his pain and joy from the same clayish earth
me molded all his life
with his heart