This, Am I

This, am I

Clouds hanging from the sky,
draped across the sun,
causing its light to throw down
in its wicked orange and red,
diving down across the wheat fields.

And the heavens open
They illuminate the earth.
The sky, crashing . . . cascading . . .
for a moment all is illuminated,
and I am floating, flying.

I have become the air,
have become a grain of sand on the beach,
have become a star in the sky.
There is a moment of meditation, a moment of still listening, waiting . . .
a moment painted, as it were, on canvas.

The air stills, the gods sleep,
the potter shapes his pots,
moulds them,
forms them.

The potter is a god—
he is himself the Creator.
From his hands pour forth the core of his being.
The poets sing their songs,
they shape their worlds from sound.
The potter, he shapes his from clay.

In their worlds, they are reflecting.
In their worlds, they have given birth to themselves.
They have brought forth—
from the darkness and the light—
that which makes them—that which makes the self.

The potter shapes,
he is creator,
and the songs resounding from out some lonely place change darkness to light.
Like a sphere of gems reflecting to the rest the brilliance of the whole,
the potter, the poet, looks to his creation;
“This, am I,” he says; and a voice returns . . .

“This, am I.”