Sunday, October 13, 2013

Stuff, a poem


Stuff happens. We make of it
what we will, lessons,
meanings, fate. What matter

if it is all truly
random? So what if God
hands you only the unformed

stuff of life, says mold it
as you can, fashion
of it as you will?

I’ll give you no reasons
why today is as
it is and yesterday,

a discarded lump
of clay. So is life shaped
between our clumsy fingers.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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