In the silence of a morning’s
Half-awakened dream,
An ember, warm and tender
Huddles close to me,
Prepares me with a restful kind
Of joy and harmony,
And power flows into my heart
Into the empty spaces.

A day is filled with child-crimes
Of passion and of play,
As even all the potter’s toil
Can’t destroy all weak clay.
But eat with me this post-noon
And shape what I might say.
Give me aid and substance now to
Fill the empty spaces.

The moon but half is darkened
And half is full of light,
Still shedding its compassion
on all the lonely night.
It speaks to all the potters,
All the artists, wrong and right,
“A woman lives with one man’s love
And fills his empty spaces.”

— Circa 1972