Living Treasure Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

I sit and listen
To this living treasure
Explain his craft, his art
His ideas about his gift.

As I sip green tea
From a pearly cup
Crafted by this master's hands
My mind begins to drift.

I hear his words
But it is his works
That speak to me
In the language of pure form.

The way the sunlight plays
On the lip of a serving bowl
Sitting half in shadow
Reminds me of a lemniscate.

I see a black hole
Filled with white light.
A whirlpool of clay
Curving at its lip
Into a sort of Mobius strip.

And it hits me.

I am not the master.
I am the work.
I am not the masterpiece
I am the clay.

Still spinning
Still wet
Still being stretched.

I may be fired
Only to be smashed.

But dust to dust
To clay
To pot
To dust again

My essence remains as whole
And as filled with potential
As the Force of the Master
Who spins me
Lovingly
Throughout eternity.