o, unlucky bastard who dug
uncovering wet sticky globs of clay
not for planting, but for
the first grave he ever had to dig
grimy and covered in filth
did he know the worth of those
handfuls of red earth that made it
impossible to grow his crops
did he have the capacity to
imagine or to indulge in idle
thought about that dense earth
that squeezed through his fingers
that kept the impression of his
thumbprint, his fingernails, his toes
did he make an image of a child lost
an image that baked in the sun
did he remember an old story
of life entering the earth
as breath or did he make that up
himself, and did he not
try to resurrect that child
did he not breathe into that clay
did he not rise with lips red and wet
his own lungs empty
Words and Feathers 
Wow, wow, wow. So tactile, can smell the earth and feel the anguish of the memory of the child.
Thank you so much. It’s a terrible thing to contemplate. But I was wondering about the first sculptors, remembered the creation story. Then the poem happened. 😄
The layers of this are so damn sweet. I love the stories you tell.
Thanks so much! I wasn’t totally sure where this one was leading me.
They’re the best ones, mate.
True. It’s never good if you force it.
You have the ability to turn angst into art, well done, a strong piece.
Thanks! I guess some people use joy. I use angst.
Eh! Joy can be overdone😀
Your link is an interesting one. I’d never thought of it that way, the modelling of clay to make a child. Dark and despairing.
Thank you. I spent a few hours in the studio yesterday, inches away from a project that is quickly getting dry. It gives you monovision to be that close and you start thinking about weird things.
Primeval maybe more than weird.