A creature molded of river clay,
how can it not stain everything it touches?
Leave its separative, alien markings
everywhere it goes?
Made of clay. Not just layered in it.
To the core and out the other side.
How could that creature ever flow?
Rise above? Become transparent?
How might the light ever shine through?
Whatever benign shape it’s molded into,
will it not always be a creature thick, slow,
heavy and cumbersome, pliable and impotent?
Only the breath God gave it – only the breath.
Miraculous, invisible, ancient and holy.
O child of God, God’s living breath –
the only redemption for a creature of clay.