Clementine

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The steam of spring
mimics her silhouette in twilight,
while she braids her hair and sings her song,
one of love
pours upon clay like the monsoon rain,
till grief and grit are erased.

The clay, in preparation,
inquires, Who am I?
My name is given;
my identity is at the will of the perceiver.

Let the clay sulk
in the mercy of moisture,
for she has a long devotional surrender.
Reminder of her nature’s unpredictability
is her unburdening life.

⬤