• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 07
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Are we all not carriers
made of clay?
Jostling each other on our formerly
empty shelves?

Every round bellied pot
a moon mother glazed with love.
Every straight sided vase
an offered bloom.

Milk of human kindness
from the curvy jug.
Honey lips, bee kissed
from pots dipped in slip.

Pouring the salt, black ink
of soy from raku bowls, hot kiln
into saucers of fiery peppers
to dip your dumplings in.

Take the lid off the amphora,
sweet oil from the orchards
on the desert hills,
holy nourishment flooding our senses.

What do you see
in the reflection?
Hidden scent giving us
the clue to our universe?