The Potter's Wheel

The wheel hums a low, wet note, centering the world in a handful of grey. Cold earth yields to the palm's slow press, rising, falling, a breath held in clay. Between the hands, an empty space grows, a vessel for what the morning will hold. The slip is a slick, silver language, telling stories that the fire will mold. A thin rim, steady as the horizon’s line, turning against the friction of the dark. Each curve is a memory of motion, etched with the thumb’s light, lingering mark. The spin slows, the hum fades to silence, leaving a shape that was once only dust. Now it waits for the kiln’s fierce bloom, to trade its soft skin for the iron and rust.