CLAY

In my daughter's hand is a molded clay.
A shape that can be altered in accordance to what she prefers.
Patiently trying to mold and remold it into exquisiteness.
Copying another to guide her.

As I gaze at her stretch it, squeeze it, and roll it...
thoughts of wonder crosses my mind.

Am I doing the same with my own clay? My daughter?
Am I doing it the right way?
Am I being patient enough to ensure perfection?
Do I base it upon the guidelines presented not just by the society,
But by a wisdom instilled to a mother by the greatest authority?

Both clays are right in front of me now,
One being waved before my eyes,
The other smiling beautifully.
Oh yes! I am doing it just as I should.
From a deep-seated wisdom,
Guided by the golden rules from "The" book since creation,
And blossoms from deep immeasurable love...


I am molding my breathing clay the way it should be molded!