Old Pots Break Easily

As I watch the slow culmination of my life,
I hold my final product.

It’s a swan.

The clay curved.
A long neck.
The pure beauty of the creature in clay form.

A tear trickles down my cheek.
I can’t help think about what could have been.

I had to fire the clay.
To die,
Without a final masterpiece,
To die,
Without memory.

The tear falls from my cheek,
And lands on the white beak of the swan.

I say good bye.

In The Thomple Hill Cemetery there is a stone.
It says rest in peace.
It says my name.
It has my date of birth,
And that of my last day.

And just in front of it,
Sits a swan,
Frozen forever.

Clay will always be clay.

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