She makes hands into washing tools
but also limbs for prayers.
At such times
the whole village
is clay for her hands.
She squats into the work
shaping the pot as she cleans
shaping her focus
the depth of her attention.
She has heard about meditation
and the thousand and one deities
that shape our lives
yet she practises her work
without thought,
her fingertips
scouring a gourd
the way the sea
washes hard shells
into etched vowels
contouring spirals
into open acts of holiness.














(C) Eric Ashford June 08