there are some nights when you can't throw
because your hands are too tired to whisper to the clay
be still, child, I will make you beautiful
so you go to bed, because the week was too much and you are spent
then you wake in the morning and are sad at the grey,
but on a second look through the crack of your blinds, separated,
you can see that really it is gold and blue and crisp
and it just hasn't touched your wall yet
so you get out of bed and hold in your hands the heat of a mug of coffee
which tastes just right today
and you read about life abundant
before you shoulder the courage it takes to make it through another day
and return to the studio where your unfinished pots wait
along with untouched clay that sits with unmatched patience
until you and your hands find the time to answer its question
what shall I be
!
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