The loons call out to me, circling below the rim
(As only loons can swim, proudly and gracefully)
At the top of the Leishman cup. I hear their querulous cry
As I raise the cup to my expectant and willing lips,
On the perfectly tapered rim from which no drop will fall
As the curving handle will softly cushion my thumb.
So does the Potter mold a marriage of utility
With art in quiet harmony: the clay then turns to gold.
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