A Fragment of a Poem for My Mom Who is a Potter

This is a segment of an Alice Walker poem called "These Days"

These days I think of the potter,
who makes the most exquisite goblets
--and plates and casseroles.
Her warm hands steady on the cool
and lively clay,
her body attentive and sure, bending over the wheel.
I could watch her work for hours--
but there is never time.  On one visit I see the bags
of clay.  The next visit, I see pale and dusty molds,
odd pieces of hardening handles and lids.  On another,
I see a stacked kiln.  On another, magical objects of use
splashed with blue, streaked with black and red.
She sits quietly beside her creations
at countless fairs
watching without nostalgia
their journeys into the world.
She makes me consider how long
people have been making things.  How wise
and thoughtful people are.