He sits down at his pottery wheel,
a slab of clay in frount of him,
a clean slate,
a new start, 
a new day.
he kneeds the clay and pounds all the bad out.
he starts the wheel,
spining round and round.
the clay being pushed pulled and pushed again
He sips more water onto the surface, 
making it smoothe once again,
His strong hands gently shape the figure,
wider,
thiner,
deeper.
He suddenly walks outside,
clay still spinning on the wheel,
and picks up a nicely pointed twig.
then steps back into his own world.
he drags the stick along the the outside of the figure,
making it seam as though thousands of vines covered the 
surface.
he stops the wheel and removes what was once just a bit of 
clay.
and is now a beautiful bowl!
he examnines it carefully,
sweeping his hands accross the surface,
feeling every part,
swiftly,
gracefully,
for he is
blind.