Glassblowing

So we are not steel.

We burn easily. Our outer layers peel,

melt into our unexpected meant-to-bes –

it is, indeed, always unexpected to me.

To say the present is a pleasant surprise would be inapt –

that description pronounces merely its own lack.

For I am floored at how our fates have formed –

a creation flickering, glistening, warm:

I did not fathom in these little flames such beauty.

But I am met with the unapproachable mastery

of the Glassblower refining me: this life leaving

me breathless, leaving me heaving

with a sole explanation: my soul is a grain of sand

that You hold in your strong-as-steel, artist’s hand.