by Margie Shanahan

Writing hides in the blue flame of my torch--
that crucible of heat and light and gravity--
that hot sweet spot where the glass melts so smoothly
it feels as if I could do this forever--
as if I could add unending layers of more glass
and metal and powders and frit
building a fantasy--
as if the glass stringers were my pens
and the stroking of flower petals, leaves, vines, berries
create a special language--
as if the whole world moves to the flow of that hot glass--
as if I am the melting glass rolled onto the mandrel,
slowly spinning,
slowly finding center,
slowly embellished,
until I harden
into that perfect sphere.

And when time and gravity pull me off center
as they will,
or that perfect sphere is dropped and cracked
as can happen so suddenly,
I go into that crucible again--
melt all the layers smooth,
slowly spin and rotate,
then center, center
until I am whole again.