iataigeh oe SL nme

I MAKE POTTERY

In the room with the sloping roof,
I make pottery.

Out of crude clay that is cold,
I make bowls,

And little squat jars with handles.
With my hands

Patiently I fashion the clay into shape,
‘Thus—and thus.

Gently caressing the smooth sides with my fingers,
Loving the coolness.

Giving to the shapeless mass of earth
A new soul.

Earth that once was a tree on a hill-top
Whispering secrets

To soft-voiced winds that met in the silences,
Of high places.

A song with a flaming throat,
Rising on wings.

Or a maiden like a slender reed
Beside the river,

And flowers that have pressed their soft mouths
Into the earth.

Mingling their perfume with the dust
Whence they had sprung.

So in the little room with the sloping roof
I make pottery.

From earth, that was fragrance and beauty,
And the song of a bird.

A STUDENT POTTER.

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