man clay

I am but clay in the potter’s hands, does clay say to the potter, what is it you make? Worry and fear are not from which I stand, therefore I must trust the potter’s will is at stake.

As he finishes sculpting, I know I am changed, I can feel my new ridges and sturdy base. But just as I find ease in what was once strange, I see there is more ahead I must face.

Life is not easy, not even for clay, for heat is what makes us strong. The kiln has been burning, awaiting my day and the licks of the flames are long.

I am but clay in the potter’s hands, my fate is not mine to choose.