Moira Edie

This is how I die. The ghostscent of clay in my nostrils, lining the cracked fractal veins of my hands. Good hands. They spun earth from earth for decades. Working the clay on the wheel beneath my fingers, whirling a whole world on its axis. My two worlds coalesce like a Venn Diagram, two binocular lenses becoming the eye of a telescope. Superimposing heather over the earlier blueprint of corn fields. I was always happier in the company of green and silent things than of people. Now I have what I was always searching for. Death is sheer silence.