Life Is What? Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Life is what? A ball of clay
Punched and softened
Spun around and moulded
Kiln-baked every single day
Till its final shape is fashioned
Or it cracks and explodes—
It's in your hands how it's finished.
How it's used and glazed
Every pot is made with love.
But not all vessels contain it.
Some flaws we can work upon,
Others are too ingrained.
All pots will be made of clay again.
It's the way of every container.
It's the way of every retainer.
Everything we put in and take back out.
It is somehow repaid.