Life is born without shape.

****** out from one to become none

Fresh clay to be cast, spun, and molded

Folded in mother's arms she begins to give  form

With a kiss from the source the little form is claimed and a wrinkle above the brow is creased; the maker's mark.

New movement comes in each day stretching out the raw material and shaping more detail.

A mouth of questions spoken to fill in the scrawling words written inside. A hidden design with each learned answer

The world takes a turn. The work  is carved, scraped, and left scarred but still more beautiful in the details.

It sees others begin to set dry becoming stuck in their ways. So brittle now in their inflexibility.

Defiant to the end instead of being baked jumped into the water to become something new.