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The Poetic Refuge: An Anthology

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C. Madan

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“[Europeans lived] in dense, settled populations- cities- where human & animal waste breeds vermin, like mice and rats and roaches. Most of the indigenous peoples of the Americas, though, didn't live in dense settlements, and even those who lived in villages tended to move with the seasons, taking apart their towns and rebuilding them somewhere else. They didn't accumulate filth, and they didn't live crowds. They suffered from very few infectious diseases.”

“Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through ...... Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. "It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly. "Oh, get out of the way, Percy," said Fred. "Harry's in a hurry." "Yeah, he's off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged servant," said George, chortling. Ginny didn't find it amusing either. "Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove of garlic when they met.”

“He lingered in the periphery of her vision, studying her as she shaped a tall vessel. Her fingers had an enchantment to them as they formed the clay into curvaceous lines. Like Bezalel, the craftsman endowed by the Spirit of God with skill to furnish the Temple in Israel, she seemed blessed by something beyond human talent, something from God. An innate gift to create beauty from the very dust of the earth.”

“We both used force against the clay. We both raised it only to knock it down. But the force I used broke it, whereas you only made it pliable and centered so it could be shaped. I weakened the clay, and you strengthened it. I diminished it, and you held it together." She shrugged, not understanding the intensity of his gaze as he studied the shapeless mound on the wheel. "I am an experienced potter." The wheel had long since come to a stop. Dust motes danced above it in the fat rays of sunshine that streaked through the window. "It makes me think of God," he said into the silence. "The wheel?" She grasped the allusion. "Jeremiah's potter, you mean?" He smiled. "Yes. Jeremiah's potter: 'Behold, like the clay in the potter's hand, so are you in my hand.' "Except that for years, when I saw God as the potter, I saw someone with my hands at the wheel instead of yours. Someone with too much force, who weakens us and breaks us down. Someone who destroys us. But looking at you just now, I was reminded that you can also be knocked down for good.”