A Master Potter

LEWIS MILES, 1840

 

Dave has but one leg,

yet I have never seen anyone

make a jar so big

and strong

and handsome.

He shows me how to draw

the jar up slow,

knuckle bent,

taking each ring of clay

a little at a time.

Then when the clay

cannot be thinner,

we let it set.

“The sun is low,” I tell Dave.

“Time to eat.”

He shakes his head.

“I still have work to do.”

“When you’re done,” I say,

“there’s soup waiting at the house.”

I leave him there alone,

a potter like no other,

and a patient teacher too.

Sometimes I forget

Dave’s skin is black.