Robert Pillert

In the heart of a poet lies a kiln, where he warms and polishes his gifts. As he transfers them from his heart to ours, he feels something is lost in transfer, but keeps hope in the kiln. Aniel Posey's kiln is as cold as clay and abandoned long ago. He had transferred his hope to something lost, until a warm June evening, when a door opened. Hope reappeared in the glow of a woman, but...