crafted

i’m a blank slate,
empty canvas,
soft lump of clay again,
difficult to feel like art.

i can’t paint myself,
pull myself to form,
hard to tell what you’re making,
even when you say you’ll adorn.

you call me a masterpiece,
although feel more unfinished than not,
from my view empty pages or blemished,
a rough draft,
hard to find the plot.

easier to feel the grains,
knowing dirt my composition,
than it is to feel the beauty,
reminded i’m your production.

what you see i don’t,
as i swim in the storm of the medium,
while you sit at the easel in delight,
knowing what i’ll become.

so i’ll melt into the wheel,
open to your hands,
you remind me you’re not behind,
just enjoying sitting here,
with this one-of-a-kind.

and then you bring color,
the world now seen with different hue,
there’s beauty in this slow saturating,
never boring to watch,
and wonder what you’ll do.

with an ease that all my pieces
already sought and bought,
you whisper again and again,
that i’m a joy to possess.
turns out we have an abundance
to enjoy in this process.

so day by day again,
i feel you near,
you’re here, it’s clear,
you know just what you’re doing.
forming and filling.

you remind it’s easier
to work with damp clay,
easier to paint when i reveal,
expose my bare spots to display,
for when you drive the narrative,
plot holes fill, cracks get sealed.

that brush, that wash,
hits different,
in a way i know i can trust,
your characteristic signature,
a familiar artist trademark.

with tool, with brush, with quill,
you stroke, press, and poke,
yet far more potent and simple,
just your hand, your word, “be still”
again, you form and fill.