Round and round the potter’s clay turns on his steady wheel
The shapes and the forms based on how he feels
When he wakes up, then warm mug in hand
There he stands, scratching his head and visualising it real
Water-soaked hues run across the artist’s sky
Brush wavers on the canvas closely followed by her eyes
As she plays in that second of that very moment
The captured movements, as the lines subtly trace her every breath and every sigh
Mother nature crafts her wares in ways exquisitely fine
But would never, ever draw in too perfect straight lines
Wise craftsmen know this from her lessons taught for free
If you only look and see, and taste from her bountiful sweet-flowing wine