Creating form from thought,
hands of the potter caress
wet clay,
seeing yet creation as it
was in the mind,
wet and soft against
his knowing fingers.
She takes a form.
In silence, they touch.
Hands penetrate clay's center and
she grows hollow
Possibility of new heights comes
with the thinning of her walls.
Gentle still,
he caresses,
hands now covered in her.
He has given a part of his
own soul
to bring form to life.
Come into being now,
she caresses his heart.
Sweet wine of him
into the chalice,
they drink,
ghost of their lips existing in
the same space.
Form and thought blur,
potter and clay
both chalice and wine.
And in this world
they exist.
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