A dream fragment:
the man sitting at a potter's wheel,
a momentary shadow before waking,
the message not spoken.
Who is he that wanders upon the edge of dawn?
The green verdance that stalks
gray linear movements
of a woman opening, while averting, her eyes
from the circular vessel of being,
as her fingers touch the potters creation.
Ah, what fear . . . why? . . . to what standard
upheld for centuries is she still bound?
The oath of self-sacrifice given
to ambitions by others born,
never consciously sworn.
Weary with the war to contain,
to subdue her own creation,
She builds a foundation for the dreams of others,
and finds only a shadow of her being
in dream fragments of the potter's wheel. | 
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