2 Poems From the Book

Chthonic Dialog: On Making Pinch Pots

In the hand

clay warms

quickens

sings to the fingers

takes form.

The hand listens

shapes

refines

guided by

instinctive wisdom

old as humankind.

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The Dance

A tiny moth dances

around the edges of my poem

Legs beat, antennae flutter

It circles, pauses,

then reverses direction

in elegant response

to streaming photons

on the lighted screen

A cough dispels it into night

returns it to its private journey — 

starlight on water

    unobserved — 

Within the mind

the dance continues — 

tiny wings, beating legs

revererate like

Tibetan bells

shimmering

into silence

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