grey clouds float across early velvet sky masking
the curious eyes who peer down from heaven
and at the kiln site she sits and works
apart from all her peers who sleep even now
the jar lies at her feet and she bites her lip
seeing every flaw again as if for the first time
yet the memories well up in harmony
and she again strips back its layers
peels the skin and gouging deep
will she hit flesh this time? perhaps
but the armor is not superficial
and her target is deep within
again and again she in anguish runs her hands
across the unfinished work
what next she says what next
I am the pot and the pot is me
and her hands show the blisters of fervent effort
somehow still not enough
she drops her hands and her shoulders shake
this jar will never be a masterpiece
if she has anything to say about it
and she drinks a swallow of the contents
of the thermos at her feet
help is on the way she hears in the voice
that floats on the wind