From Clay
Chill, clutching, greasy clay
within the riverbank she curls.
Self to self, within, without.
No knowing here
where red clay ends and self begins.
A potter, iron shovel, too,
dig down, dig wide, dig deep
in river’s red bank of clay.
Wind and rain assault this dirt
made pliable by warming sun,
scented sweet by honeysuckle vine
drummed lively by sparrow’s chirp.
She tastes her clay. She sniffs her dirt.
She stirs.
Potter pulls this lump from what’s been dug
starts the wheel around.
Round, around, working wheel goes round.
She wills herself upon this wheel
from unmade clay.
One will only drives potter’s hands.
One joined will draws softened clay
in upward spiraling mass.
Breathed upon, red clay sighs
moves to potter’s trembling touch.
What have potter’s hand and red clay begot:
potter’s heart beats high.
No clay pot.
Alive, red clay woman is what he’s got.
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