No straight lines

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