From Clay

    “From Clay,” Ensign, Aug. 1986, 29

    From Clay

    Perhaps like these white stones—

    Or like bronze—could I

    Under the touch of your hand, Master,

    Become a monument?

    Look, I am dancing in a roseate circle

    With laughing children, our hands clasped.

    I am a woman: one of those whose smile

    Into a child’s eyes gives milk,

    Whose outstretched hand supplies food,

    Whose voice through thy word offers good.

    From my child’s instrument I hear

    Tunes I never played;

    I kneel in dark shade to pray.

    Look, Master.

    Even I shape the clay. …

    I too flow, like the monument,

    In a white touch of music on the summer air

    And I fall into the rocker

    With the soft rhythm of life

    While my hands shape for warmth

    With the threads of my care

    As though with your arm.

    I am learning, Master. …

    Someday enough

    To stand with these women

    In the circle of your garden … alive …

    To see myself, a monument,

    Until I touch our living hands

    No longer stone

    Photography by Jed A. Clark