(with my love and thanks to my friend, Ruth Holleran)
Cannot the clay be crushed while on the wheel,
Canvas be slashed before the paint is dry?
Can’t faulty stitch be ripped by knitter’s zeal,
Phrase be erased which fails to satisfy?
The carver, wise and skilled, has perfect right
To scrap the flawed and twisted piece of wood.
The poet stops his fledgling work mid-flight
Because it isn’t singing as it should.
But we, the Potter’s marred, unlovely jars,
No masterpieces…He elects to wet
His hands and work us new. God, who names stars
And knows each sparrow, hasn’t finished yet…
Till we are fit for our unveiling day,
Our Maker–loving, faithful–shapes our clay.