Author Information
Clayby (or Rottery)
When I was a stack of clay,
I'd felt the hands that stirred me up
and shaped me into playful forms
without a kiln to temper me.
Though never set from clay to stone,
there was joy in handling
and being sought out by her grip:
her fingers poised to tousle me.
On many days she'd grant me strength
with reinforcing arms of faith -
to settle me upon my feet
which she'd craft so I could stand.
On other days that left her wounded,
she'd reach for me with knowing breath;
to press me down into the soft,
and loving pillow beneath her head.
But soon my folds would stick to her,
trailing muck beneath her nails.
Her fingers would pry loose of me
and hope to leave me fine alone.
But sadly left beneath the sun
that poured inside through window glass,
I set to starch inflexibles
without a pretty sculpt to have.
And now I seek the shaded veil
that might soften me so well again,
until a better, stronger, loving hand
may turn me to a statue.
