The Potter

The Potter — page 1
I am the potter's daughter I bend down and raise the pot from the earth Dust of a thousand years rises in clouds spins away in the sea breeze The pot fits in my two hands as if it were made to be held there On the swell of its belly are moving forms in earth-red and white I tip it to one side It responds lightly in balance ready to pour The flaring lip around the mouth quivers It speaks