I’m human clay.

Burnished and molded,

Sculpted and folded,

Fired and dry,

Broken,

But not remolded.

Grated into dust

As fine as the sand

Worn down

but not worn out

I drift over the land.

Re-wetted, renewed

Reformed or re-spun

I settle into rock

Or bake in the sun.

Each moment, each day,

Gives rise to new birth.

Be I dust in the desert,

Or the salt of the earth.