Her World

Look closely.

Look how the artist has crafted.

Weathered, cracked hands

Kissing the clay on the wheel,

Making rolling ridges that rise slowly

And then slope down gently

Until the bowl is even and smooth,

Glistening with water to soothe it

On a hot, dusty day.

She smiles, holding the wheel,

At her creation.

She knows she will not starve

With a creation in her hands

That will save her rumbling stomach

And bring back the glisten

In her eyes.

She waits,

For the bowl to return to her

White as a cloud,

Smooth as a pelt.

For now,

She can paint it.

She infuses it with color,

Drops of red and orange,

Like a flame,

To warm her cold nights.

She creates a winged warrior

To watch over her

And give her luck

That the Gods have not blessed her with.

It comes back,

Soft and as glassy

As the joyful eyes which receive it.

Her creation is complete.

Days are in her cracked hands

In the form of a bowl.

Staring into the pit,

She knows there will be something soon.

Rising off the dusty floor,

She leaves the sanctuary of her house

And walks around,

Showing her creation,

Hunger in her eyes,

Hunger and hope.

The sun makes its rounds,

And the woman returns,

The bowl as heavy as before.

She carries such a prize in her hands,

Won’t anyone fill her with happiness?