THE VESSEL

I am not 

the sculptor.

I am the clay,

let’s say,

from which 

forms

a shape 

I’ll call

humility:

the capacity 

to hold life’s 

imperfections

imperfectly.

When I let 

the excess,

that can look like 

pride or humiliation,

fall away 

along with 

the compulsion 

to struggle, 

what’s left is

the giving into

the mystery,

the hands 

I cannot see,

that can make me 

malleable

when I let them.

When I do

their force and grace

creates 

the contours

of a consciousness 

I will carry 

but in no way contain.