Clay People
for Leslie Lemke
Everything that passes is recorded
somewhere in the clay as it dries
fingertips over the Braille
seek glimmers in the emptiness
where memories are birthed and lost
Some, born huge and silent
hewn in stone, stare soundlessly
from distant islands, faces to the sky
watch forgotten voyagers
riding astral waves
eternity unglimpsed
others spend their fading sparks
sitting in cramped corners
totting up rows of endless numbers
that repeat themselves like cogwheels
of uncomprehending clocks
Yet here and there
small apertures of genius appear
letting the light show through
a few, born blind, unable to walk
or hold a fork and spoon
Sit suddenly at a piano in the night
play flawlessly a string of songs,
repeat the contents of ten thousand books
or calculate with absolute exactitude
the number of angels who could populate
the sharpest points of pins
Somewhere in each one of us
a genius sits silently
waiting like a sleeping beauty
for a finger dipped in love and patience
to wake it, help it find its wings
Fly out gloriously into the world