The Hand

  by Phillip Peters

Time, a mud puddle drying in August's incandescence,
contracts, beneath the sky’s blue infinity 
as each moment evaporates.
The brown water, a profit
bearing truth, stares 
up into the eyes of oblivion,
never blinking 
until the last second takes flight.
All that remains, 
a crust of brown thoughts,
lined with words, form an
earthy pottery flatly shaped 
by an unseen hand,
holding all of your existence.
The wind blows,
etches the mud
erodes thoughts and
mixes words with the earth.
As your thoughts echo into 
the black-hole of promise,
a star is born.