It soaks sunlight,
dazzles the infant saltshaker
that sits upon the redwood table.
Some blown glass is still; the heart
of the artisan never filled it.
But here the fires of forging, the pouring
splashing molten shimmering sands,
are encompassed in the curve of the lip,
the slip-sheen of gloss, the arc
of every quicksilver strand as one
flowing: a handle, an empty bowl.