Perry Dye ’25

The clay wobbles beneath my fingertips Rolling and twisting in slow heaving gasps A beast breathing under the palms of my hands I hold my breath, leaning over the wheel Softly guiding, pushing, until it stills. This tender new form emerges— Spinning, spinning, yet holding so still in perfect balance, But the release, I’ve learned, is crucial in this art. I always tended to be too quick—eager to complete, Nervous to examine this new development. But in my haste I’d knock the edge, shift And with the minute change the balance slips away. This clay has a will of its own, a stubborn gritty grey Always wanting to stretch and writhe or lean Swerving, sliding into weird, bulbous curves. No, the release is slow, reassuring, Calculated and careful, brushing a soft goodbye against the clay, Never fully relaxed until the hands lift away Dipped into silty, murky gray water, The splashes leave arcs on the slowing wheel. The soft whirring of the spin slowly quiets, The first step is over, the clay, centered— I sit back, gently let my breath slide out Then the balanced, even shape Begins to spin again.