I held each piece in my palms, one piece at a time as if examining each piece.
“Read it out loud, ” said the potter. “what good is poetry if it is not read out loud? ” Scoffing he added, “It is no prose! ”
I picked one piece up and aloud I read :
Some things I’m going to do today
I’m going to look back tomorrow
And find them funny
Then I’ll ask God, why do I find these things funny?
And He’ll reply, ”You’re okay”
“Hmmm,” said the potter, urging me on.
I picked up another piece and again aloud I read :
Every child leaves a signature behind
A mark that says they were once here
That they had grown up there
Being upset over a child staining a sheet for example
Is as empty as getting furious over the natural order of things
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