I scratch myself.
An itch,
That stems from the heart,
And spreads until,
My skin pares.
I feel my bones
And file at them
With an emery board
Of memories.
Dust.

A chance wind.
I Rise again.
Swirling in the air,
Settle down.
A potter’s hands
Kneading,
Her fingers coaxing,
Promising shape.
Burnt in a kiln
I am a vessel.

Coals in my self,
Providing warmth
Burning every moment
Embracing the heat.
Held by the son,
Harbinger of freedom
From life’s funeral pyre.

Broken in a moment,
Stamped underfoot,
Clinging to the flesh,
Desperate for life.
Nestling in a crack,
Just when the journey
Seemed to end,
The beginning of an itch.