2 Poems from the Book

Chthonic Dialog: On Making Pinch Pots

In the hands

clay warms

quickens

sings to the fingers

takes form.

The hand listens

shapes

refines

guided by

instinctive wisdom

old as humankind.

A tiny moth dances

around the edges of my poem

Legs beat, antennae flutter

In 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