ONLY MOISTENED CLAY
By YeriYah
Wolf
He lovingly removed the traces of the days work. His hands and arms, stained ochre from the red, moist clay.
He tidied up the potters shed, then took advantage of the last few rays of light that danced on the many shapes and colors of his work.
Peering in the glass, he combed his disheveled mop and secured the premises for the coming rest.
As the door latch fell, the pots, as was their custom, began to play and sing. The newest product of that days work began to see all the others were very beautiful.
They sang as angels sing, they danced like bright autumn leaves caught in a dervished eddy.
She cried softly because she was still just moistened, red clay.
Then suddenly, three gaily colored urns surrounded her and said, "Look, fair vase, at your reflection in the silvered mirror, wipe away the moistened eye, take pleasure in your beauty, shout, shout for joy."
Joy was a paltry word, for she saw form and grace and intricate design. "Oh how wonderfully I'm made. I am in truth, the most elegant of the potters works.
But what be this? This clay of my clay, he has begun to fashion, from my very lump some as yet unidentified creation.
Cast them down! Break and break again. Cast them down and break asunder.
I will it done, for these are brought forth from my very substance and I shall not be challenged so.
Destroy these works, they are in truth but moistened clay. "