by Cheryl Merrick
The potter approaches his bench,
Taking a lump of clay,
He slams it hard against the surface.
Oh pain? Did I really volunteer for this?
The preparation has begun.
The clay must be smooth
To take form and survive the firing.
So as, as he stretches, cuts, and pounds,
I complain, bemoan, then finally,
submit in faith,
To be worked, shaped by the vision,
of the Master Potter