In psychology, we learn that everything
we learn is like dust—

for you are dust and to dust you shall return,
memories formed and memories gone

out of our heads, brushed off
to be emptied into gray space.

But I don’t want to forget you—
soft blue at the edges, vermillion in the center

the sparks emitted from your mind
perfectly organized yet scintillating

and you are not fine like dust,
you are constantly off-center

the way clay on the wheel feels
tossing my hands around in art class

and I am not a god, although someday
I might remember myself as one

of your shapers, actually enough
to have helped someone beautiful as you

become a masterpiece.