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
At the edge of a sinking island lived a maker of pots In a cavern open to the sea the potter sat at his wheel On the spinning wheel a wet lump of clay was growing Growing up from the sturdy foot with one soft silent motion up into the round full belly stretching up into the long slender neck The wheel slowed and stopped Where there had been only space now stood a pot He gently pulled a pouting lip out from the rim The pot opened its eyes then yawned stretched and settled back down to dry He cut the pot free with a long thin wire and gently set it on the crowded shelf
