I sit in an earthen jar, waiting. My hair is liquid gold, then amber rich as resin, then deep and mysterious with hints of emmer wheat. I bubble and sigh in the darkness. My life has purpose; I become round and rich and full in anticipation.
It is quiet here, within myself, surrounded by my own growth and contemplation. Fear of being something more comes and goes. I talk to myself, holding endless dialogues and debates back and forth. Sometimes I believe everything and sometimes I believe nothing and sometimes a tantalizing hint lingers out of reach.
My shell is earthenware and cool to the touch but within, I am on fire. I long to crack and break free even as I know the time is not right. I weep as I ripen; I am the perfect offering.
I am a thousand of all good things.