clay on my hands, grey, cold
colder than expected, pleasant
against my skin. wedge the clay, palms
squishing it into itself, spiral, spiral
fold, drop, toss into a ball, hand to hand
pat pat, pat pat. slam onto center
of the wheel, wham down twice
with my palm. start the wheel
dip my hands in the water, luke-
warm, cup the clay and squeeze
squeeze, squeeze–fingers pressing
pulling it up, up into a shaking cone
pushing it back down, down, side
of my right hand pressing, left
hand supporting. thumbs press down, in
rhythm, slow, not too thin, not too
fast. pull out, pull up, knuckle braced
on thumb, fingers slowly grasping
caressing the earth into fluid
motion, making something out of
something that was once
something that was once
nothing that was breathed into
life a long, long time ago.
it is not easy this, spinning
balance, this finding the still point
exactly in the middle
and shaping everything around it
centered. it tips and wobbles and
lurches beyond repair and I
squish it all into a shapeless lump
and start again, clay squishing between
my fingers, until something
emerges, something that has
worth, something I can make
beautiful. but I guess this raw earth
this handful of cool, grey clay
has worth by simply being
by simply having the potential
to be something more–
and so it already is.
this is the first thing I’ve learned
for me and only
me and I breathe and it calms
the always unsteady sea inside
of me. and yet as I press and
smooth and cup and
shape, as my fingers glide over
nothing becoming
something, I cannot help but
think of you
and think of how I can’t help
wanting to give you something
beautiful.