Clay
by Clarence Wolfshohl



I’ve worked my garden for thirty years,
built rich soil on the slab of clay
like the islanders of Inishmore
who composted seaweed into soil
over centuries; but at bottom
it is potter’s clay—the color
of terra cotta. I know a creek bank
with streaks of grey and a red as bright
as jetting blood, squeezed finger thin
by the meters-high moraine when ice
capped us here before seeds breathed.





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