I am still in the making.
I am ugly rouge clay whipping around a wheel,
large hands slowly shaping me
into a respectable form that will have some use:
to quench a thirst
or hold some daffodils.
But right now I am only just a lump of clay,
spinning fast on a wobbly platform,
splashing water and making a mess,
still mostly disoriented.
I am being pushed hard into shape by my Maker,
getting bent in ways I am not sure I want to get bent,
stretching in ways I did not know I could stretch,
but being molded for my good.
Slowly, a form is starting to emerge;
glimpses of purpose come into view.
I am not yet who I will be,
I am changing, I am becoming.
I am getting there.
