A shapeless mass of clay
Set upon by invisible hands
One that sculpts for purpose
The other molds for chance

When they conflict as they often do
A struggle ensues and the clay is torn
Or when one is one and the other is two
The clay bends and resembles more of one form

But when harmony reigns between the two
Chance smooths the corners that purpose has struck
The hands are like one and the errors are few
Purpose balances chance by designing luck

From the spinning wheel into the oven
She takes the heat and the drying air
She knows that her clay will harden
For she must be strong for the burden she will bear.