When you work with clay
you learn to enjoy the dirt,
the silt feels like silk curtains
drawn on an autumn day.

You learn to listen to the skin,
hear all the whispers spoken,
and whisper back tender questions,
that teach of the two of you together.

When you work with clay,
you explore abstract places,
pursuing adventures of vulnerability,
to discover (not exactly create) truth.

You learn that truth, alone, is nothing,
without you to define and assess it.
You make yourselves a part of that truth,
and what you sculpt together is your truth reforged.

When you can no longer work the clay,
you instead knead the aches and pains,
worn, cracked hands rather than a bust or vase,
but a landscape of passion all the same;

where peaks and valleys boast of conquest,
scars and coloration sing of compassion;
nowhere is the silence of smooth skin.
With clay my hands have been broken in.