We’re delighted to share another wonderful and thought provoking poem from George Wills:
You thought me clay,
Inert, Amorphous, Safe.
Churched, you took me as the potter takes the clay
To shape me on your wheel, then fire me
Fix me in new form, defined as yours.
While still clay I could be anything
For any potter.
I could adapt, could not be broken, could not harm.
But thrown, then tempered by your fire
I can now, without breaking, be one thing only
That which you would have me be.
But I have learned to break, to make an edge
That cuts and wounds you.
What am I now, you ask
As you bleed.
I only know what I would be.
I would be clay again
To shape on my own wheel.
©George Wills 2016