My little clay poem

A spinning lump of clay is 

a slippery wet dog who doesn't want a bath,

eager to escape in every direction.

Clay prefers to be at rest

asleep, underground, an amorphous mass.

Clay awakens under pressure,

blending, shoving, squeezing, 

forcing through narrow openings.

Clay becoming art objects

calls to me, awakens me 

early in the morning.

Mud when pliable,

dirt when dry,

stone when fired.

Often uncooperative, temperamental,

loaded with potential, 

hidden beauty.

Fascinating, mysterious, transformative.

A life's work in a ball of mud.