The Potter\'s Hands

She found her heart in broken pieces,
Scattered on the workshop floor,
Yet gentle hands, with patient thesis,
Gathered fragments, shaped once more.
He spun the wheel, the clay surrendered,
Water, earth, and spirit blend—
A vessel scarred, but now remembered
For beauty born where cracks won’t mend.
She holds the cup, her soul believing
That every flaw is part of art—
A masterpiece, forever weaving
Redemption through a mended heart.
The kiln’s embrace, both fierce and tender,
Fires hope into the fragile clay,
Transforming pain the world would render
Into a strength that will not sway.
Now on her shelf, the cup is gleaming,
A testament to hands unseen—
Proof that broken things, redeeming,
Can hold the light where cracks have been.