What is it better for my heart to be like?
Hard as steel as a sword so to shine?
Or of something delicate
Like intertwined feathers
That they might tenderly touch
And provide a place for heads to rest?
I find myself fixating
Thinking on clay
That in the fires of aggression and hatred
It can be hard baked
And shattered into sharpened shards
That say "don't come close"
When it breaks
I am not a potter
Like my Heavenly Father
So forgive any scientific inaccuracy on my part
And permit me poetic license
Using clay to form a heart
But it is my belief it is a time sensitive thing
It needs water to soften
And hands to make it shape
Before it stops fast and hardens
Before it forgets that it's the substance of which it is made
So I think it's best
For my heart to always remember that it's clay
For it to maintain its malleability
As it retains its fallibility
As it surrenders to an artist
Who is never making people wrong
Who made these lungs and windpipe
To make words
And sing songs
And tell my wife I love her
And my friends that they are strong
But more than this
That it is a heart
That is dearly loved
Because clay feels best
Between fingers
It replies
Gratified
When it is caressed
So let his hands
Reach in
And know
As you are
With all the mess
That in his eyes
Your potential
Is limitless