Hands enter silence

not gently, no, small but unstoppable

pressure born of hunger,

of need not spoken but breathed

into every softened shape.

Clay does not ask.

Clay receives.

Bears imprint of indecision,

the trembling certainty of instinct

shaped into life by command.

Elbow. Palm. Thumb.

Knuckles dig as if unearthing memory

not hers, well, not always hers,

but one whispered

from some deep silt of matter

aching to remember form.

She leans in close,

calm concentration, breath steady,

not just creator,

but medium,

as if clay summoned her,

spoke need

in secret tongue of yielding and yearning.

Some days it resists.

Fights back, slumps in sulky defiance,

reminds her

no masterpiece without surrender.

She does not flinch.

or quail.

knows resistance is part of the shape,

part of what must be held

until it holds itself.

Not a love story.

but definitely communion.

is it a battle?

This is a woman

listening with fingertips

for a voice older than language,

older than bone,

older than fire.