Human Clay

I’m human clay.

Burnished and molded,

Sculpted and folded,

Fired and dry,


But not remolded.

Grated into dust

As fine as the sand

Worn down

but not worn out

I drift over the land.

Re-wetted, renewed

Reformed or re-spun

I settle into rock

Or bake in the sun.

Each moment, each day,

Gives rise to new birth.

Be I dust in the desert,

Or the salt of the earth.


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