Clay Human

I walk spring’s amber streets— past broken beer bottles, English gardens, and red mulch yards with tiny pieces escaping design— crunching beneath shoes at sidewalk’s edge. My long shadow rises and falls across peeled paint patterns and crooked porches and rusted shopping cart asleep in bushes winking sunlight where chrome still shines. Lifted sidewalk slabs heaved loose by roots— ancient stone dominos at jumbled rest— frozen the moment after anticipated chaos. Then— my gray shadow pauses— sways— hangs— above clay human hunched in the mouth of Mill alley— hand-built, then fired in the kiln of addiction; covered in dusty residue of dream and tattered Tibetan prayer flags. She comes to life almost every other day to rage at her creator around gravel in her throat. When bargaining ends she returns to solid form unable to see cherry blossoms— unable to feel sunlight— the clay human awaiting triumphant resurrection © D.W. Moody 2009