the kiln cracks with angry tongues,
licks the clay to permanence,
one pass leaves it too frail,
two, still dull, forgettable ash.
three times the fire must rage,
shaking colors loose from shadows,
searing brightness into reluctant flesh,
beauty born through pain’s necessity.
and we are no gentler handled,
life stacking trials like dirty plates,
sorting us under its blistering heat,
scrubbing our surfaces raw and ready.
but grace sneaks in like a thief,
pinches pigment from busted days,
paints us brighter than the dark,
fixes us firm, cracks and all.