the Potter

the clay was mixed

in a box of murky water.

the potter's hands encrusted

with grime and dirt

worth a million years of toiling.

but the clay won't be molded,

the contours refuse to take shape,

the grains refuse to become one,

the water to become clay.

the potter's hands now gnarled with veins

of endless toiling and endless doughing

refuse to stop

and end the fruitless shaping

of the stubborn clay

that was once created.