The Kiln
I can see the potter's hand when looking at your face.
Each gentle feature not by man could such a thing create.
I watch in awe as you sleep, this cherub from my flesh.
A most precious gift he gave to me he knew 'fore she drew breath.
I know nothing but to stand rendered in my awe.
In this role that I have granted me by God.
I wonder eyes how did you see before you saw her face?
And heart I wonder how'd you beat 'fore the kiln yielded that day?
What the potter's hand had made.
Copyright © Sheree Beasley | Year Posted 2013
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