Poem From the Cradle to the Cyclone Fence

CRADLED

Finely crafted, predestined, meticulously designed

Toiled and labored from the touch of the Potter's hand.

A small treasure with no imperfection to her eye,

Cradled in her arms and sheltered from the shifting sand.

Entrusted in her care, the task of molding the clay,

Too soon the darkness loomed to threaten the binding tie,

A fingering crack in the clay, seen only by her

To patch the flaw, too tiresome , the mending of a lie.

A raging storm cast shadows on the fading calm,

the sorrowing Potter had sent the gift as a loan,

The clay could not be mended; the hot sun's rays beat down,

No shade from the smoldering heat, her prayer a moan.

Still clinging to her possession, the time growing nigh,

The Potter would be returning, his gift to recall.

She knew the bloodless war, non relenting, had won.

Reclaiming her gift, powerless to prevent the fall.

Mending the crack, the Potter began his tedious work,

Never to return, He slowly concealed the defect.

He cradled the gift gently under His loving wing,

On her knees, she saw him, and the work He did perfect'.