Turning, turning, turning. It just keeps turning in my hands, the cool, slick clay. Coming to life beneath my fingers. Turning, turning, my foot keeps the rhythm. The clay takes shape like an elegant lady, dancing on ice. Everywhere is turning. Wet, red hands at work. A mournful whimper escapes my tight throat, a momentary lapse of focus leaves a soggy lump in the lady’s place. I look to the others for help, or solace. But they just keep turning, turning, turning.


2 thoughts on ““Turning”

  1. Being a sculptor myself. This is really pretty. 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s