Another piece of writing...

Rhythmic kneading, up, down, in, out, punching a soft center

Fingers lightly grazing the inside of the bowl

Pliable, stretchable

Strange alchemy

Left alone

To rise

Or not  

Breath,

Bread,

Tears,

Each stronger than the sum of softest parts

Primal impulses

Nourished by love, even in absence, and the solace of small acts

Another piece of writing from my class...

Today

The solitary practice of making tea by the cup…

A prelude to our late morning phone calls

Started when your girls were in diapers and down for naps

You always began with a joke or a funny story

Our natter quickly turning to the world beyond our doors or

Some book neither of us could put down

Your treks into the desert, telescope in hand

Looking for the perfect night’s sky, filled notebooks

Now in a box, closeted in a city apartment, far from the landscape you adored

I sip my tea alone, the only sound

Your voice in my head