The hands that mold us

I am clay

They could smash me into the table

Kneading out the unwanted

Shape me into whatever they thought

Suited

Adding bits, scraping others away

An amorphous thing, waiting to become art

I was almost complete

But the artist thought better

Gently my walls collapsed

Once again I became a handful of earth

Starting over

I was fired once

A low heat

More set, you can’t make

Major changes

But additions, adjustments

The sculptor waits

Pondering carefully

The steps to come