When I Was Clay

I miss when I was like clay. Malleable and young. Spinning, and the spinning is playful like a merry go round. In a process to become something more. Fingerprints, and crumbling, and mess. Laughing, and having fun. And then the kiln hardens me. And that’s forever. Until I fall, And all it takes is one fall to crack. I can be glued back. Into a functioning bowl, that will hold soups and cereals for the rest of my life. But I’ll never be as beautiful… I miss when I was clay. But they had this idea. To take that away.