When did clay first think to shirk the potter?
first billowed with breath, sun barely risen?
I was not there at first dawn yet I too wake with
serpentine thought in my drowsy brain.
Great mystery: that clay should breathe and defy.
that dried up clay should breathe again.
When it breathes, what does the clay city say?
while the city moans its Kyrie.
And over the frailty and smog of the earthen day
this treasure that rises and cries, Father –
Father, mold us. Squash, bend, transform –
dry and cracked. Supple us in Your hand.
And such layers of rot, bones and trash
in the cracks within me…
Long dry season. Autumn rains tarry
fills every crevice. Thistles blow.
When Your April showers come will You
of dust, soften clay into some changeable thing?
Do not let me dry and harden again as some
parody of Your image. Mold me new.
Microprayers for Lent: Weeks Four and Five