jdoem

Little figure made of clay-- slow, air drying, formed today-- passes time from hand-to-hand. Each touch dimples, as was planned. Until one day, the clay has dried, and every divot, they try to hide. Soon, outer form is armored shell; hiding the cracks within their hell. Others now, who've left their score, try to assist and to restore, find they're thrust back out the door. And though the task in size has grown it feels it's better to go alone. Now their sculpting hour is done; the figure carries on as one. Never learning that stormy weather is smoother sailing, done together.