The Taste of Clay

I was born

with a Southern drawl

flowing from my lips

like rich red clay

during a summer downpour,

thick and shifting

with each emotion,

an open window to my heart’s hue,

with no mistaking the color of it’s source,

at once velvet liquid slip

flowing with a languid ease

in welcoming rivulets


the cracked ground

of a scorching summer afternoon

where you’d best watch your step

or risk tripping yourself up,

But the man on the t.v.,

he told me in no uncertain terms,

that the soil in my voice

coated me in ignorance and shame,

that I should wash myself clean.

He taught me

with his strict diction

and firm suggestions

of which of his products

could save me from myself

And good and diligent pupil that I was,

I learned.

Pulling my bare feet from the fertile mud

and rinsing away my ancestors,

I walked away.

Decades have passed

and my tongue grows thirsty so far from home,

yearning for the taste of red clay

during a summer rainstorm.

About The Sterling LIne

Where does art end and life begin? I don't really see a distinction, but I try to consciously live each moment with enthusiasm, following inspiration where it leads, being open to possibilities and exploring the boundaries of myself, the world I live in and those I meet. Though I attempt to tread softly and respectfully, I often get clumsy, carried away with enthusiasm ... Woman, artist, force of nature and mother... Lives in the SF Bay Area.
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