Who am I 

that you know my name?

What am I 

that you know my being?

What causes you,

ineffable giver of life,

to cast your eyes on a filthy clod

of dirt, breathing dirt,

like me--

and raise me up

and cry 

to turn me from mud

to clay

to pristine vase?

I fear the fire

I fear the molding,

I fear the forming of my soul.

But I know--

deep inside I know--

the joy of the potter's own.

I have seen, I have envied,

I have not dared to grasp.

But I don't need to.

You grasp.

I need only to be pliant

and to know that you are God.