Clay *** in hand face smudged with clay
She holds the brush makes image all day
Mound of river clay gets shape and grows
To bosoms, belly, navel and eyebrows!

She builds with the method her mind conjures
Seen through broken mirrors imagined contours
Lending every limb with a part of her own
The image will never be she when fully grown!

She has to make the goddess youthful ageless
With ridges and valleys of resplendent flesh
Remake treasures from ashes of her withered assets
That bore raging storms yore’s ***** tempests!

Her hand sweeps the clay over her troughs and crests
Heaping a lavish greed on her thighs and *******
Once finished when the model her eyes would scan
Won’t find the goddess but in her image a woman!