A young child, soft clay to be moulded by numb hands
The clay can take no shape in its soft subtle form
In this pliable state it is fondled, used, forgotten still taking no form
Listless, shapeless and disfigured the clay is sucked dry and becomes hard
All softness gone it will not be altered
It feels safe in its rigidity;
Lingering unyielding it feels nothing
Its stony surface will not be penetrated
The clay feels secure in its solid form
It endures feeling nothing, it is inanimate
This stagnation becomes an abyss, a nightmare in hades
Yet the clay sees this not in its denial still
taking comfort in its dry inflexible construct
Ultimately the clay begins to crack
If it does not become malleable it will cease to exist
In desperation the clay begins to lose some of its stiffness
It feels strange new hands, they are soft and warm
These hands have feeling and love
They shape the clay with caring
It is, oh, so good to feel again, but there is fear
The clay becomes terrified of the unknown touch
It occasionally takes refuge in its strict build once again
becoming solid, unyielding
Until inevitably it begins to crack again
When again despairing it needs to feel the warmth of the loving hands
In this pattern the clayslowly begins to strengthen and take shape

Douglas A. Walker

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