In the back corner of the yard amidst the trees, grass, and flowers there was a kiln. It was made of roughly hewn, golden yellow bricks, stacked with loving care. The kiln was about 6 feet tall and the opening was arched, leading to a dark belly where simple dirt was changed into something strong and enduring.
The kiln was made by a young potter whose skill in making pots was renowned. The potter was tall and lean with arms and hands made strong from molding and shaping the clay. He had a firm jaw, full lips, and hair the color of wildflower honey. Glasses framed in thin gold wire rested on the bridge of his straight nose.
Each morning the Potter would come to load his creations into the kiln. In the evenings he would return to check on the baking pots making sure their transformation was complete. (more…)