untitled

My eyes are lazy and don't see well.
With my hands I see, and that is good.
I can hold the whole world in my hands
when I am seeing with them a good pot.
Then there is the earth:
dense and hard, yet at one time it grew,
expanded and breathed;
there like seed to stalk to flower to fruit,
it patiently endured the potter's tactile search.

The clay speaks softly but firmly to the potter,
it is not afraid because it will always have the last word,
even if it must atomize itself to return again
and seeks its destiny anew in another's hands.

My hands see the clay and the clay murmers to them
take it easy, you're in good hands.

The dialogue continues and long after that brief communication
when the hands and the clay see each other, they know.
They know.

Richard Fairbanks, unpublished manuscript, undated