the hope of making something new

Each day arrives cloaked in darkness. Black paned glass reflects through opened blinds, anticipating first light. Atop the counter a wheeled mug sits empty. Beans ground and measured. Filter placed. Water reservoired. Click . . . the day begins with waiting. 

My mug was made by local hands, a father and husband, his life shaped by what he could make. The pragmatic sculpted and wheeled into something new. Clay mixed with beach sand. Colors fired. Bellied base, heavy and shaped to fill cupped hands. Rough with an encompassing groove for holding. Rounded lip smoothed by glaze. Each night I set it under the window where the light first breaks.

(continue reading @ Outermost Writing from Cape Cod)