I watch my young son play with clay.
He kneads the dough with determination,
Pushing and squeezing,
Not knowing exactly what he's working on.
He presses it and tears it apart,
Watching closely, inhaling its scent,
Smiling as he squishes the clay
Into a logical form he sees in his mind.
In the end, he is satisfied with his statue;
Its uneven edges and bumpy shape
Made up of carefully selected
Rainbow colors.
He places it on his shelf
Next to his other masterpieces
Of unidentifiable objects,
And picks up another fresh piece of clay.
Some poetry. Some prose. All heart.
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