Michael Morris - Willow-weaving

To cruel, hard hands,
The willow will not yield.
To force it is to break it.
It must be lead, gently,
To obey its own nature,
To achieve its own destiny.

Then will emerge a shape with purpose.
Form will mirror function
And the basket will be content.
Fulfilled in its own existence.
Unique.
As with the soul of a child.

Michael Morris

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/willow-weaving/