The Potter

we are here to be marked,
cut into, incised, the perfect
blade tracing patterns in the clay
until a unique offering
is ready for the kiln
and all the days, indelible,
are fired hard to preserve
all the clay has been:  its
shape, its form, its patterning
easy on the eye
of the one whose hands
wield the eternal edge -
to throw us as we shatter
into shards of hope and love
and pledge, into drift and grief
into grooves we wish we'd never
seen, into paths we wish
we'd never been - all those
choices crack the heart
as our pieces lie
waiting for the water wheel

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