Mud Mother

We are not proud that our skin

is lighter than dust or darker than dust.

Dust is a palette of artist’s colors. 

We praise the beauty of earth and mud.

We honor the stardust of which we’re made.

We thank the Potter, the Mud Mother

who turns us on Her universal wheel,

our shape ever-changing

under the guidance of Her hands.

Like dust we are community,

separate selves, strong together:

illusion of solidness

spun of empty space,

weaving material cocoons

for visions of becoming.

Thrill of colliding galaxies,

we explore the snail‘s blind world of touch.

We sift our pleasures grain by grain.

We rise as castles of sand

and fall again in waves,

smoothed and flat yet breathing,

honeycombed by holes and bubbles,

our bodies warrens of caves: 

interlocking, moist, sensitive

extensions of the living earth.

Our fingertips, whorled like winds,

caress grain-textured surfaces,

faces of the ultimate diamond:

our Mother crystallized from mud.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018