Silence
rains in
The
studio as
Fingers
draw sacred circles
And
"X" marks the spot.
A
soft lump of earth is pushed, pulled, and pinched
Until
it rises and glides through the air.
Even
when their most intimate moments
Are
on display, it is
A
lovers' language
Whispered
between
The
potter and the clay.
Water
pail too murky
A
pond for deep reflection,
She
is all hands and heart --
Pulse
timed, breaths swaying
With
the speed of the wheel.
Mesmerized
by the whirring
She
swears it isn't her that
Shapes
these vessels --
But
each piece
An
opportunity for release,
And
in that way
It
is them shaping her.
