The blue sky has given way
to cold grey arches.
There is little tending to the
grieving dark or falling leaves from
barren trees, detached by laws of seasons
thrust from the past into the present.
Lost to the sun, her destiny is the hard earth.
What remains is a treasure of clay and a
potter’s wheel behind a sleeping spider.
She breathes warm breath on frozen fingers
until once again she is malleable,
bent and shaped into her likeness.