Every gilded urn starts out as air, naught,
like creation morning, nothing there, not
chaos even, which, I think a thing: black, fraught.
Just vacancy, life spent alone will know.
I know the thing it is to start from scratch,
Empty, hollow, no clay, paint, oxide, kiln;
Sound, if ever there, gone mute, dark attached
to day. I'm talking about lack: life, will.
I'm saying there's a desert in my soul.
God made man from clay, I fabricate lament.
The urn does not begin as air. I told
a lie. It starts as an idea, grace lent.
Born of inspiration, given fire, heat, course,
Triune Creator: not once lesser source.
A note from the author:
The flower pot is just my way of saying that everything we create comes from the Holy Trinity as a gift.