Against Gravity

for Bobbi, the potter

Brown eyes snapping
in her gentle face
she shows me in the kiln
a winged sculpture. Putting
her hands together as if in prayer
she says: I hope it's not too
heavy, too thick to fire
without cracking.
I have to try.

Walking the beach,
we see the gull, wings
still spread in flight, tips
of blue feathers pointing
the way...

        once it soared,
        its body a kite...

now neck snapped,
body crumbling in sand,
its spirit still resists death
in every broken bone.

Watching the dip and flow
of shore birds, I think
of her potter's kiln
baking clay she has formed
with her mind, with her hands.
I see the sculpture cracking.
She, breathing a sigh,
sets her jaw, begins
again.

Reborn, the sculpture rises
like a gull skimming across water
on determined wings...

                oh   that moment
        when you lift off and fly
        on your own     taking     breath     after
        breath     of pure air     riding
        the crest of the current...

I surrender my gravity
to her grace.    Heat of her fire
transforms my voice.       My words
take wing and
                weightless
they fly.

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