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Clay
In the beginning
a lump of clay,
vague, amorphous,
without shape or structure,
rests untouched
in quiet repose.
Score it,
slip it,
mold it into being.
It is waiting
to be fathered by creation,
to commence
its genesis
within the palm
of dexterous hands.
Break through
the shell of dust
and expose its moisture.
Dig beneath
its ashen soil.
Seed it, sculpt it,
feel the rhythm
that pushes and presses,
folds, flattens,
leads your hands
in a vibrant waltz
across terra cotta sludge.
In the beginning
a lump of clay,
vague, amorphous,
will gain splendor
and glory by
the humble grace
of touch alone.
Feel the power sift
through your fingertips,
feel its weight
as it presses into your palm.
I’ll be your clay,
you can be mine.
Together we will make
each other beautiful.
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