Clay Achin'

A moist,
Dark,
Mysterious form.
Pliant, and
Supple --
It sits waiting
To become.
Beckoning the hands
Of a conduit.
In a low siren song,
It calls, "I am here,
And don't forget
What you promised me.
What you owe to me..."
Its pulse so slow and steady.
It chants these words;
It casts a spell.
Now part of a whole,
It must pass through hands,
Heart,
Water, and
Fire --
It must recognize
The strength to be found
When we are tested.
Then, it becomes a vessel.
Then, it becomes
More than *just*
A thing.
It grows,
Lives,
Matures, and
Becomes hardened against
The ways of the world.
The imperative
Of endurance
Has deepest roots
In us all.