You work clay the way
I work words; spinning mud
until something holds.
With a patience known
only to mothers, you kick start the
peddle,
translating your own strength
into one more near-perfect bowl.
Behind us: lamplight, starlight,
lightning bugs. they cast shadows
into the interplay of a bowl’s lip,
the fruit in the bowl.
I lift an orange eye-level.
Your bowl and body both,
from loam to life—
composed of brilliance.
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