Clay

Formed out of the clay,
the wet earth from the stream welling up
and watering the thirsty ground,
why should I not conform to your hand

and let you collapse my walls,
pushing down with the heel of your palm
until all I had built
is returned to you and I am
another formless lump

ready to be fashioned anew
into what you have in mind.
Better to be soft and malleable
than broken pieces
that tried to put up a fight.

Again and again
You will reshape my life,
and I will let you.
This is our pact: You will tear down
all that will not last,
and build up what you see in me
that is good.

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