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In your hands, a potter's wheel,
shaping substance into form
the physics of involution:
broken shards along a
caravan longing a
sweet alchemy, precise
fingers on snow

In the desert bloom.
I weep your nearness.

You have made a fine vessel.

Fill me with sunrise.

Editing stage: 


and 17 months no comment!

Your words are sublime.

Neopoet Directors

Dearest Jess, is it a coincidence that I visit Neopoet an hour after you resurrected a poem from 17 months ago?

I suppose, since I write enough mediocre poems, a once-in-awhile *sublime* poem is a good thing, eh?

Much love, and always be hungry & thirsty enough to write poems.


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