Slimy glob within my palms,
I push you toward center
where you must be before
I press you
gently, firmly
between my fingertips,
causing you
to rise up
taking on the shape I choose.

I am like you, lump of clay,
needing a push
toward center
where motion and balance are one
before I proceed
steadily, firmly
along a road, sometimes uneven
causing me
to question
which turn, what shape to take.

Piece of earth, speak to me.
What do you
want to become?
Must you be always useful
like a cup
to hold tea?
Or, should you become a lovely form
with no function
other than
to be displayed upon a shelf?