You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness ongoing.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.
Each thought is a life lived or failed to live,
each word a dish you have eaten and left behind.
There is honey that is so bitter
No one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty and fear.
A rebus-slip is full of my stubbornness,
on the bottom of the river, my own consumed life,
when will I learn to read it finally?
Plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see it.
As water gives to sugar, salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no, continues
on one ladder with an anvil and a cup.
As the ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup remains to sit empty.
How can I answer this question the clay has asked?