What were we thinking
when we took the clay in our hands,
lovely, clumsy,innocent hands,
and channeled through our fingers
the brilliant kaleidascope thoughts
that whispered through our minds
like ghosts

Why did we scream
when our ideas did not translate?
From heart to hand
something was botched.
As perfectly as we
could envision these spots of color
as imperfect as they really were.

Why do we insist on
this sad experimentation
to suit our fantastical standards
when sometimes
though shrouded and improbable
what we need is raw
whole, clean
an unmarred sphere of clay