my tears fall and soften this red lump, a messy mass in your palm.
my pain moves your fingers gently and purposefully.
it is yours to knead and press, to shape and bend just the way you want it.
you may place it on your wheel which spins seemingly out of control.
the world surrounding appears to orbit too fast to make sense of it all.
but really you speed the wheel along so that it is the clay which races--
moving in circles, going nowhere except in the direction of its transformation.
all the while your guiding hands never falter.
for they are always constant in your creation, keeping it on the wheel where it needs to be.
you take your time with this red pulsating piece.
and once off the wheel, you wait patiently while it rests still finding strength in the warmth you provide.
then at just the right time, you take it up, fix your gaze upon it, and adore your artwork--
my heart perfectly formed by you the Potter, ready to love and live, to be used amidst the rest of your handiwork.
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