So little to believe in.
Seems everything we are given
falls away.
Seems everyone we love
can be taken away.
So many things to remind us—
we are born of clay.
Easy to crumble,
fragile once fired,
not really clear what we hold,
so little lasts from long ago,
yet each day brings us closer
to the divinity at hand.
I open mine and witness,
nestled in a wound,
a nail made of iron.
I know this is something
everyone can hold onto.
This will last.
Bless this age of iron.
We who are to be forged,
bless and remember
the crucible of this open hand.

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