Dig the clay.
Carry it home in reed baskets,
deep and heavy.
He met me when I was in the foothills
He touched my hand.
Sift the clay.
Take out every stone and twig and roughness until
it feels like sparrow feathers.
He came to talk with me, some nights. We walked
in evening-light together.
We spoke of kings and birdsong and shadows.
Wet the clay
with pure river water from over the rocks.
Let it sit for a night.
By the river-side with pitch-lined baskets,
he stole a kiss.
His eyes shone like the flick of a sparrow's wings.
His skin was the color of clay.
Mold the clay.
Draw it out of itself; awaken
the life in it.
Shape (gently, gently) eyes and feathers,
wings forever frozen at the edge of flight,
a tiny breath.
He followed a king's call.
He left me with a promise of love
and the swiftness of a sparrow.
Fire the clay.
Tender creation, buried beneath the flames
to be reborn.
I am alone.
A tiny brown bird in a nest of brick,
far from my fire,
my love shattered in the flames.
I am alone with my clay.
[this is very, very old; I wrote it when I was still in high school]