First, the smell of red-brown
clay moist of earth
a column
thick so thick
we want no air to penetrate
this heft and dense
no bubble forming
undermining.
Knead, then,
ask this clay elastic
to know your hands
the dough and stone of them
pushing back and together
the palms cradling
the whole hand lifting
and sinking pressing
repeating the song
the bowl of your body
quietly forming.
Oh, what a fine remembrance!
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