Memories of dust and silt sift their way through the room
Mixing the artist's dreams with his passions.
The hand that caresses is worn thick by practice
And meticulous caution, with dirty finger nails slowly
Shaping clay into existence.
The clay that is earth.
The moldable earth that is all of us, that is us all.
Amongst the black and white shadows of the studio,
Both near and far, short and tall-
Creator and destroyer of nature, from nature
He builds and rebuilds,
And builds again with guiding, fluid hands.
Between the raw material and the finished product he lingers-
Water. Rock. Fire.
Cups. Bowls. Vases.
The artist exists in both worlds.
He, the bald man,
The man of salted hands.
The knotted man, of convictions
Tied with sweat and skill.
The man of ocean air,
My great friend, my likeness!
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