Pottery

In perfect history,
creation was practical, 
a potter's wheel rhythm. 

Hands in the clay, 
monotony was made beautiful. 
We spun ourselves into vessels
that carried:
Our water, 
Our grain, 
Our precious ordinary things. 

Life is less tangible these days. 
Our artistry is enabled by our ingenuity. 
And honestly, I am tired of broken pots.  

Will you carry me to the stars when I die?

I want a constellation of my very own. 
I want to refine my methodology. 
I want to distill my motions into a single image.
But that’s not living.