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The clench of her fists
crushes the clay of earth
as if to condemn it wretched
and squeeze out
the last of its life
her uncompromising grip
mingles the clay’s misery
to finesse’s beauty
by a tender soothing
of her finger’s stroke
and crafty tips’ pacifying
till the blood of her warmth
wakes the mass of mud
into a breath of many years
a dance of endless swings
and a song’s mirth
of andante strains
sweetly the potter’s song