In 2012 my daughter Laura and I joined a multi-week pottery class. She turned and glazed many beautiful pieces (see photos below). While the wheel tested our (my) patience, taking the class was a wonderful daddy-daughter experience. As a younger child, Laura formed a clay blob of which she is not so proud. But I love it because she made it, and it has become one of my treasures–which is why I wanted to write this poem.
She Gifted to Me a Treasure
a blob of fired clay,
a woven straw beehive
in shape—a slanting thumb hole
welcomes pencils and pens,
barred pheasant feathers.
I am so fond of this blob because her hands formed
this blob, the masterpiece of a child creating,
and she made a present of it to me
because she doubted
her creation’s merit
as a thing, a tapering firm-based thing
with a cream sky dangling turquoise clouds and royal-blue stars:
a treasure to me
as is she.