Our Body is a clay cup,
floating on the ocean;
soon it will fill, and sink . . .
Not even one bubble will show where it went down . . .
— Rumi
This rude clay cup follows
a memory of my hands making it.
A pattern from ancient near east
maybe seven thousand turns
of our rich seasons past.
Mask of a warrior, a hero, which
when I show the cup, terra cotta red—
dull red of our oldest dry blood—
in its common utility as cup
is merely a warrior upside-down,
harmless water bearer.
Sometimes,
the world turned upside-down,
we squander faith on heroes
and for a time our hero becomes
the pattern of our small vision,
soothes the splendor of our fears.
Mostly though, we are wise
to pattern our mythic vision
on a gentle touch of hands,
and we drink from the clay
our fingers shape.