Up from the clay that his fingers mold
Comes a shape from the searching mind
That seeks within the lifeless clay
A form of his own design.
With skill acquired through years of error
His hands move with swift precision
Protruding and hollowing the moist, soft earth
Making real what was merely a vision.
And when the completed article stands
Approved before his eye
He sees within the shapely earth
A part of his soul that will never die.