Between fingers
I thinned out the clay
from dough
to spit.
Like spit
I churned it into milk
upon the planetary disk
turning.
With centrifugal force
I made it revolve sideways,
made it rise …
unfolding
tulip-like …
There is magic
in the deft fingers
caressing enamoured
the dense matter,
from it eking out the froth …
blossoming
like a rose
with the power of the soul.
And then I kindle flames in the kiln
to fire bowls and pitchers …
sherd red hot in the furnace,
entombed and tempered
for three days and three nights,
so that when later resurrected,
swarthy
like a Cretan raisin
scorched by everlasting suns,
they clink like crystal …
like Cheops’s pottery
in the pyramid
that defies eternity.