Nighty-night

What can a handful of soil become? Rain falls in, holding the softness of flowers. Wind seeps in, gripping the grit of grass. The earth stays silent, everything grows.  

Kaolin is dug from the hills, washed, settled. Hands give it shape, kneading texture into the clay. The soil keeps its soul, forging bones in the fire. After 1200℃, earth is not earth. Earth is still earth.

Heavy, yet seeds turn within it. Hard, yet roots breathe through it. Deep, yet petals dance above it. Older than us, yet younger too.

Nighty-night. Let the day slip away, and let the earth hold you too.