his slow neck has pushed aside
to bury him for winter.
His heart beats slow.
And the fish
are embedded in ice.
I photograph you
at the potter’s wheel, the light
and the dark of you.
Tonight the turtle is growing
a larger shell, calcium
from inside sleep.
The moon grows
layer on layer
across iced black water.
On the clay your fingertips
are wearing away
the red soil.
We are here, the red earth
passes like light into us
and stays.