Somewhere deep in your home
is a fire that warms the water 
that runs over your hands.

The plate you are holding 
remembers being mud, 
has given itself to firmness, 
to holding and offering
what you have received.

The quiet of doing 
nothing but this
is a music that fills you,
a wind that lifts and carries,

an expanse as vast as the thankfulness
with which you lift, and fill and empty.