Her hands are broad and firm
That work 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.

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