How beautiful it is
to be conceived as earthenware—
tilled from soil,
pliant with water,
kneaded by skilled hands,
tempered by fire,
birthed by kilns.
Sacred. Inspired.
Where in rain, we are porous
and in any water, we saturate
without having to expand.
Uninclined to disintegrate.
Yet,
how fateful it is
we are neither immortal nor brittle,
but on heedless hands
we turn vulnerable—breakable
into islands veined
with golden rivers—
fulgent under sunlight,
flowing forever,
brushed by pardoning hands
and celestial eyes that hover
over cracks across islands
binding our vessels
altogether.
