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Poem	When the molten earth seethed in its whirling cauldron nobody watched the pot from a tall wooden stool set out in windy space beyond flame's reach; and when the spattering mush steamed, gurgled, boiled over, mounded up in smoking hills no giant mixing spoon smoothed out the lumps and bubbles as the pottage cooled to rock. No kitchen timer ticked precisely the eons required to fill the gritty pits slowly, drop by drop with layers of glassy salts, agate, opal, quartz; no listening ear inclined over the silicon mold to hear the chink of crystals rising geometrically facet upon facet in the airless dark. No hand lifted the stony lid to add light, the finishing touch, and no guest cried Ah! how well the recipe turned out - until this millennium, today, at my table. -Julie Alger
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