An intimacy dialogue

Soil:
You return again, gentle maker—what do you seek in my darkness?

Hands:
A whisper of life, a memory to shape. I come to craft, to listen.

Soil:
I hold roots, decay, beginnings. Will you take my stories?

Hands:
Yes, I will knead your silence into form, give your fragments breath.

Soil:
Then shape with care. I am fragile, though I birth the world.

Hands:
I will honor your giving. Together, we will grow beauty from loss.

Soil:
Then take me. Mould me. Let what was forgotten bloom again.

Hands:
Always. We create what endures.