I remember
the potter said,
why he makes what he makes
when he makes it:
Make what moves you,
most.

Making,
I say,
moves me
most.

By the River
I make tracks
where vole and rabbit, fox and hopping
birds already left
their skittering script.
I don’t know cursive.
I only print my two mute
boots across
their snow poetry, my moving
scrambles what they’ve
made.

The River moving
breaks the ice and moving,
sends it on.
She wants these frozen
jigsaw pieces gone–
clearing out the junk
she’ll soon
flow free.

And yet the body runs
in time’s direction,
gravity’s the master
down and on,
swift water
can’t run faster
than

                           the Soul
             whose lonely           insurrection
         stirs an eddy                 in the heart and turns
       the Body back                      in circles
              round                        this ice
        she's chosen                       round and round
      not free; caught                    in such devotion
        counter motion                   making this
          clear and perfect            disc still
                          moves me most