I will take you in my palms again.
With tears and ashes for potter’s slip
I will mould you, taking on a softer form
and a steadier gaze,
I will look into your face,
your moments of joy,
your seasons of disgrace,
and I will learn to love you.
Your light and shade, your wrinkled brow,
your stinging blows that wind me now,
your smiling eyes, your heavy head,
the moments I’d sworn you’d left me for dead,
LIFE, AND ALL OF YOUR RUBBLE,
I will love you.
Until one day when tears cease,
the potter’s wheel no longer turns,
and I see you in your wholeness.
My hands COVERED in the drying clay of decades,
fingers worn almost to the bone,
ready to let you dry in your full shape
and return to the ground
as the ashes we scooped together
all those years ago.