Hands caked with beige clay,
I work with slight dismay,
A present just for you,
Sculpted while I feel blue.
My clay is my canvas,
Coloring the blankness,
With the love youāll soon see,
The care that will soon bleed.
Sweat douses my forehead,
My patience about dead,
I make your present great-
Orā¦_try_ to make it greatā¦
Intention baked inside,
In the paintbrush that glides,
With hope, affection, ...
