clay Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For this prompt, I went back to a poem from January when I tried pottery for the first time. The first poem described how I adjusted to the idea that sticky fingers were not necessarily a bad thing, and on how the clay felt as I worked it. This time, I tried to bring in all 5 senses, as the prompt asked.

Fingers Learning to Mold Clay

the first touch sticky, resistant
as fingers hesitate to work the clay.
but the brick is cool and moist, faint-scented
the smell of clean earth. It waits
to be poked, prodded, pounded and flattened.

Hands begin to work, ears tuning to
the soft squish of clay whispering secrets
to striations on the mold that
birthmarks its flattened face.

As I watch, it shape-shifts, sharp corners
soften and round. How quickly it dries,
figures formed from rolled clay fingers
now reluctant to join themselves to plate.
I lick my fingers, the taste like dry earth
and salt, a hint of cool spring rain.
The clay softens and seals, no longer brick.
Three penguins cluster there upon
a textured earthen plate.

Carol A. Stephen
April 11, 2012

Carol A. Stephen