Anniversary
Clay doesn't want to cleave.
A lump of it will always love it's own boundaries.
Because it's the nature of clay
to cleave unto itself.
True--It can be molded or pinched or prodded
into a handle or spount
And then pressed into the damp skin
of another vessel.
But when the hours wick it bone dry
Or in the sear of the kiln
it will not cleave.
In truth
The potter teaches clay to cleave.
He rasps each surface
where the two will meet--
a thousand little scrapes,a thousand little scratches,
a thousand tiny sacrifices.
Then he spreads on each a slurry.
Over all the roughed places, a balm
generous and wet
as loving kindness--
And with the knowing in his palms,
And with the knowing in his fingertips,
he coaxes union.
It was not in our disparate natures to meld.
It was easier for us
To play a kind of stubborn tennis match
of wit and wits
and endurance
For an individual victory--
For an individual's dominion, vindication,
or credit.
And yet,
On that morning 35 years ago,
We vowed
before God and angels and witnesses,
to cleave.
But it is the benefit of old love
To get beyond the kneading and tweaking,
The gouges into those notions of self
that felt, at first,
like betrayal.
It is the benefit of old love,
To get beyond those little losses of self required
when merging to make something new.
I watch you sleep,
As I've watched you sleep for all these years,
And feel that place where my skin presses yours
dissolve.
And feel the We--
that thing that was the point of it all.
A treasure graceful and lasting and true
As an ancient amphora salvaged
from a shipwreck on the ocean floor.
Thanks for the quilt, the lovely poem, and 35 years of patience.
ReplyDeleteI still love you madly, just as on the day we first met.