After the rain

 

On the path,

In the embankment,

Near a spring

Or a pond,

The clay is harvested.

The twigs and pebbles are removed.

Once it is pliable,

It is rolled into a ball,

Gradually,

The sphere is opened.

 

In the palms of hands,

Slowly,

Under the fingers’ gentle guidance,

The bowl takes shape.

 

Dry wood is collected,

Twigs and branches,

A fire is lit.

The bowl is set by the fire

To dry, slowly.

 

Unhurriedly,

The bowl is surrounded by small embers,

Then larger,

Progressively covered.

The flames are stoked.

Once the bowl is glowing

Hot orange,

The fire is stoked once more.

The flames are left to dream, to sleep.

While the bowl is still red,

With a slender branch

It is gently rolled from the fire.

It is placed on green or dry grass,

Dead leaves,

Pine needles.

Once the bowl emerges from the ashes,

We meet it for the first time.

 

In another story, in another fire

It might be clothed in a transparent coating,

Or a glaze…