CLAY

“What are you making?”

I say to the child,

As he sits with the clay

In his hands….

Shaping and pressing,

Small fingers dancing,

Earth yielding to his demands;

 

“I don’t know yet,”

He tells me,

His countenance solemn,

“I can’t tell what it is

Til I’m through..”

And when—satisfied—

He lets it be dried,

He’ll dress it in tissue and glue.

“What are you making?”

I say to myself,

This clay without shape

Will be – who?

I’ll shape it and press it

And nourish and dress it….

And what will I have

When I’m through?

 

I don’t know yet,

I’ll tell them,

If any should ask me,

I can’t tell until it’s complete,

I am a potter

Of mother-earth creatures,

My hour of gestation is sweet.

Sandra Lee Smith

 

 

 

 

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