“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
