Kiln

A glance in the mirror, waves of nostalgia.
Transported back in time,
These too were her babies.
Mimicking her actions,
“Knock the air out first,” as my little fists pummeled,
My face flushed with effort and concentration.
Then I watched the miracle of birth,
Her delicate, yet expert fingers delivered a perfect pot.
A jug today, a vase tomorrow,
The special smell, of damp that pervaded the air.
The powdery perfection of post kiln baking.
Feeling the curves before and after glazing,
The practical and artistic melded:
My mother’s legacy.