In Leaps and Bounds
I watch as you scoop a mound of clay
from the block next to you,
caressing it like a child.
As you smooth the raw material,
I notice your worn hands.
Those hands, rough from years of labor,
speak their own language with the clay
as the wheel spins and a shape forms.
Making the bowl is like magic before my eyes
but I'm paying no attention to your creativity.
Instead, my eyes follow your hands
along the moist texture, making
ridges
caverns
canyons.
They do a poetic dance with the bowl,
Dipping and swooping
Smoothing and gouging.
I imagine that I am that clay
and you are my creator.
I have potential to be
a work of magnificent art
a weapon of brutal killers
or maybe just a mistake.
Your mind only knows what I will be
and how I wish I could see
what you see in me.
March 16, 2007
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