Transfixed, I watch
your hands - strong, quiet, efficient -
transform this humble offering
from the soil into something pure,
lyrical, a shape so perfect
it seems a miracle.
Later, when the yielding clay
ossifies to a leathered urn,
I cradle this treasure with care
between two palms and peer inside,
looking for… what? I do not know.
My eyes meet black eternity,
empty hollow smelling of earth
primordial, essence of you.
Your heart, a vessel.
Cuore is Italian for heart. And what is a heart but a vessel? Back in my clay days, I once spent two years focusing my craft on the metaphorical aspects of the heart.