Her hands are broad and firm
That works the potter’s wheel.
The colour of clay
In water dipped
They shape,
or coax,
and feel.

And raise,
Or shape
Her arms,
As mothers do,
In fifth arrayed,
From thick and viscous mud
Her works of art are made.

Behold the common jar,
Or brew a delicate tea,
This dusty stuff
The fire sets
To hold,
To look,
To be.

.

.

.

© WhatHabit Co. and Words For Leaving. All rights reserved.