The Artist

I've heard it said
We're made of clay,
In God's great plan
What better way
For mothers like my very own
To mold and shape-
For she alone
With artistic vend,
Partakes a task without end.

Her hands and heart are never still,
she plays the clay against the will,
And blends and tints with rosy hue,
Resulting in the me and you.
This she does for many years,
The clay is moist with mother's tears.
Then each grandchild becomes an heir
Its busy hands ever there
Again to shape with rosy hue,
My mother starts her task anew.


Published