Sunday, August 20, 2006

a poem about a pot

Wind with words the line and form
and round the rhythm with a phrase,
curve the lip to syllables of sound:
deep from damp earth's dungeons
Dig your clay
spin it
and from the magic spirals let it rise,
a springing, slender line, sensitive, ageless.
Fire it, hold it petrified in stone
safe beyond time.

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