Bound to This Wheel

Wrapped in an

Uncomfortable, plastic shroud

Leaving empty seeming rooms,

Pacing halls to avoid

The stare of clocks.

Trying to escape a darkness

That threatens to eclipse

All the rest of my time.

Finally, I break down –

Accepting, acknowledging

This presence with

A resounding, “Yes!”

Then, I wonder:
How you respond

When you are called.

Because we live,

Bound to this wheel,

Between now

And infinity –

An intimate initiation

In the art of transformation.

On our way to becoming,

We must prepare our selves

As vessels, ready to receive.

Often, we fail to see

Even that which is

Happening in front

Of our eyes.

Language, for example

Is merely an approximation,

An alternate version, a

Reflection of the reality

We, personally, perceive.

Why trust some thing

That exists only skin deep?

It is my fingers that

Keep seeking

Primordial materials.

An insatiable desire

To experience

This flexibility of form,

Reminds me to remain both:

Durable and impressionable.

The potter knows:

Clay, like life,

Is not just

Some thing

You are shaping;

It exerts force,

Commands a will,

And channels energy

That is capable of

Touching you, too.

It clings to cuticles,

Seeps into all the

Endless cracks, and

Lives in the layers.

Eventually, it starts to distort

How we measure distance,

Our ability to defend barriers.

But, losing certainty

Isn’t a reduction –

It’s an expansion of

All things possible

For us to be.

In letting go,

We create space

That allows for healing:

Rinsed,

Re-newed,

Ready to be,

Re-used,

Re-purposed,

Re-leased.