A lifetime is like a tall, earthen jug
formed from a smattering of wet clay
by the hands of one who loves us,
fired at high heat until resilient,
sturdy and steady enough
to withstand
being jostled
by a clumsy gesture.
A vessel to simultaneously
hold who we were,
who we are,
and who we are becoming.
When thirsting for answers,
we can tilt the pitcher
to pour out our memories,
the joyful, the mundane, and the jarring.
We take needed nourishment
from the happenings that mold us.
We draw sustenance
from this container crafted with care.
Oh beloved, age-old receptacle,
I want to daily fill you with
the sweet wine of life, the everyday holy.