The Red Clay

I fell asleep in a heep of mud outside my new home. I awoke with strands of red woven throughout my hair and the sky bulged with blue. The earth held me in both of her hands. Warm, safe, and wet.

When I picked myself up off the ground I discovered the image I had left while I had slept. It was petite, but deep enough to leave a mark. My fingers stretched out in the casting, looking less like tiny stumps and more like ballerina legs.

It rained down hard, washing the red clay from my legs. The dirt beneath my fingertips still remained, like new caulking to hold my joints together. The horizon was clean, filled with the scent of peonies.

And since no one was around, I began to dance. Right there. My skirt billowing out before me, twirling, whirling, every which way. Rain, like a sprinkler, giddily coming off of my hair and wrists. Like waves, I moved. Freely. The raindrops tracing my every step. Echoes of movements passed, like the applause at the end of the song.

I still feel the dirt in my fingertips, the red clay holding the pitter patter of my dancing toes.