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When I Was Clay
by Ken HarnischAmbrosia, those lips
I am sure
The memory is fading
But not the woman
She ages finely
And matures like
Champagne
I take my measure of
Accomplishment
At her success
For steering a restless
Mind to find
Its own
Creative way
I wish someone like her
Had come along
Then
When it still meant something
When I was clay, wet and formless,
Awaiting, eagerly, the sculptor’s hand
Being a sculptor myself in the end;
Self-taught, but unable
To decipher my own words now
Or read them without a translator
06/17/2009 Posted on 06/17/2009
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 06/17/09 at 04:50 PM Oh, I really like the translation of this, Ken! The idea of having been clay, and the unspoken idea that,as we age, we loose some of that pliability. |
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