Filled up, emptied out, filled up again—
stew bowl, fruit bowl, bowl for water—
by hands that work beginning to end,
clink of the spoon a steady refrain
that leaves a slight groove in the porringer.
Filled up, emptied out, then full again
like the stoneware, chipped, where tongs were lain
week after week for each Sunday supper
by hands that serve beginning to end.
Salad bowl. Bread bowl. Bowl with stains
from summer beets, rye dough, dark chocolate batter.
Fill them. Empty them. Fill them again
but never the thin-walled porcelain,
rose-painted, passed from mother to daughter,
their hands a link beginning to end
as their passing seasons wax, then wane,
each not counting what it costs her
to fill the empty, then fill again
with hands that know beginning from end.
