Kiln

 

When you sculpt me today,

What shape will I take?

In careful, wet mud strokes,

What vessel will I become?

 

When you dry my skin in sun and wind

And abrade away the rough edges of my humanity,

What curves will your desire play upon?

Green and still so breakable, still changeable.

Scraped carefully down with blade and grit.

 

When you cast me in fire,

Warm bed that hardens the bonds.

What will I become then?

More permanent a fixture?

Or a mistake, forged.

 

Ruined.

 

Will you toss me into shattering pieces

Still not quite good enough?

Pulverized into nothing-dust

Mixed again…all over,

Cold wet lump returns

And I sigh, bottom flattened on table top

While itching fingers reach into me again.

 

What will you need me to be today?