Before the Kiln

Picture a lump of clay,
cool enough to hold
the shape of a thumb.

A bowl begins as pressure
answered by resistance.
Too much, and the wall folds.
Too little, and the hollow
never opens.

There is a lesson here
for any conversation:
leave room for the reply
to change what you are making.

One turn of the wheel.
One look from the side.
A rim that seemed level
reveals its gentle rise.

The next touch can be smaller.

Art has room for such attention,
for a curve discovered slowly,
for the useful moment
when an expected circle
leans toward something stranger.

Round, round,
almost.

That slight unevenness
might give a lip its resting place.
It might be a weakness.
Water will ask a question
that the eye alone cannot answer.

Keep the first attempt.
Set the next beside it.
Let their differences remain
where they can teach us something.

A lyric, too, can hold a space
until a voice arrives.
The written breath
and the singing breath
may choose different lengths.

Before the kiln,
there is still time to listen,
to test the shape,
to press less hard.

The hollow waits,
ready for whatever
the work can honestly hold.