Dream of Mine

Here is the studio of
The mother I wished I had
But whose character was not such
As to make such remarkable permanent
Projects.
My mother delved into the souls
Of others to sap and suck up
Energy and peacefulness
Leaving the host dry and apathetic
Without knowledge of why this should be.
She wrote beautifully.
Her poetry rhyming melodically
About love and love and love
Which she did not understand.
But, ah, to be a potter!
That would take a steady hand
And patience she did not possess.
Always moving towards a troubled past
In her present and future.
But, in my mind, my mother is
A potter and she owns this studio
Of beautiful, permanent memories
Made with steady hands
And an open heart.