Vase. poem

In her old hands the rod burns.
Its turned like an egg: the thick hot glob
its yoke. This is alchemy, to sugar
sand into glass from fire and breath,
like lava formed with snow.
Blown, the parison treacles as it
winds: it cools into clarity
flecked with sunlight,
To sit like a spun heart, a castle of air,
this vase I hold.