the poetry nugget

Clay, tools, brains - they are all working except the boy who never does. Hands into the medium, pounding, molding, sculpting, objects taking shape, efforts made. Four days of nudging, coaxing, asking, they are finally following the lesson plan, I will not tell them.

photo by author I dream of shooting stars, but my feet are mired in thick mud and the sky is far away. My reach too short, no words spun like a spider's web, to catch the reader in its deceptively strong fibers. Teased by its evanescence, it eludes me, leaves me earth-bound.