Never liked clay

Too messy

Slip sloppy stuff

When I was young

I was a

Magpie for Bright colors

I was enamored by

enameled copper tiles

Mysteries of sand firing into

Acid yellow greens

strawberry red on turquoise

I’d look up from my precise glaze

I’d look over the kiln at

The dun-dusted sculptors

Working on wheels

Clay writhing whirling

I’d be shake my head

Mud between their fingers

I’m no longer young

My youngest brought home his pinch pot

proud as a first grader

with a glittery macaroni necklace

I held it up to marvel

Organic and squat in blue black

finger mark formed

Still don’t like clay