Long ago, in a faraway land,

There lived a man with calloused hands.

His life was quiet, his days were plain,

But shaping clay eased all his pain.

Each morning he’d sit at his cluttered table,

Molding the clay as best he was able.

Most days, the work brought peace and grace,

But this time, his efforts just felt like a waste.

“What am I doing?” the old man cried.

“The top is too lumpy, and the bottom’s too wide!”

His hands grew tired, his patience wore thin—

As hard as he tried, he just couldn’t win.

He gave it a squeeze, one final attempt,

Before glaring down at his project with contempt.

He stood, defeated, and yelled to the air,

“I’m done with this mess! It’s beyond repair!”

He opened the oven, flung it into the flame,

Turned up the heat, ignoring the shame.

Half an hour later, he peeked inside—

Still lumpy and crooked, misshapen and wide.

With a scoff, he hurled it out into the street,

Then slumped back down in his lonely seat.

His pride was gone, his spirit bruised.

He turned down the lights, alone and confused.

——————

Just after dawn, by a bridge nearby,

A young girl sat with tears in her eyes.

No money, no food, no place to stay,

Just hope and prayers to get her through each day.

She dusted herself off and stood up tall,

Determined not to let her spirit fall.

She wandered the streets with blistered feet,

Till something shiny caught her eye in the street.

She moved in close, her breath held tight,

Then saw the sculpture bathed in light.

A crooked heart, too lumpy and wide—

Yet somehow, it filled her with warmth inside.

“Perfectly imperfect,” she whispered low,

Then tucked it into her pocket to go.

She danced her way to a little pawn shop,

Burst through the door with a sudden stop.

She walked to the clerk and showed him the heart.

“What would you give for a fine piece of art?”

He sucked in a breath, his eyes went wide,

As he ran a hand along its side.

“This is stunning. And boy, is it rare.

I can do five grand, Miss. Is that fair?”

Her jaw fell open, she could hardly speak.

She thought she was dreaming when her knees went weak.

She left with the cash and a brand-new start,

Grateful she’d found that crooked heart.

She rented herself a lovely home,

And a puppy to snuggle so she wasn’t alone.

Who would have thought that one man’s trash

Could make her this happy, all in a flash?

If only the little old man could have seen

What the girl and the clerk had somehow seen,

He would have realized, if he’d given it time,

True beauty lies in the heart—not the design.