Pulling with hands soft and smooth as glazed clay,
Her foot prods the pedal, turning the wheel.
She basks in the bliss of a beautiful mess.
She's learned art is born from that carefree mess.
Moulding with hands caked in layers of clay,
She makes artwork dance on that spinning wheel.
Her bones creak along with the aging wheel,
Silver hair spattered by flecks of sweet mess.
She glazes with hands rough and cracked as dried clay.
Beyond clay and wheel, life spins a fine mess.