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.