The Potter's Hands

The wheel hums low, steady, eternal motion.  

Clay bends soft, yielding under firm pressure.  

I watch it twist and reshape, no protest.  

A hand digs deep, pulls the heart upward.  

The Potter knows; the clay stays silent.  

Fingers pull impurities, scraping hidden edges.  

I feel it now too, the hard squeeze.  

I crack, resist, but the turning doesn’t relent.  

What choice do I have but to endure?  

He sees visions I cannot, beyond the glaze.  

What I think I am, spun into nothing.  

What I will be, still his quiet secret.  

Trust is heavy; faith, a fragile lump.  

But his hands are steady, shaping patience.  

The wheel never falters, rhythm swallowing doubt.  

The Potter works; I surrender to being formed.