I am the clay

I am the clay in the potter's hands
spinning on the wheel in search of center;
pressed in and lifted up,
pressed out, or slumping down to rise again,
now thick, now thin and being shaped
into a vessel, hoping to be strong
enough that I'll contain whatever it is
that I was born to carry;
that I won't break in the firing,
or be dropped once hardened,
my destiny unfulfilled.

Perhaps at least the glazing
on my fragments will be bright enough
that I'll be set into a path
to guide the way for others...