by Lydia Harris
Some are thumb-sized
tempered with shell,
buried close to the dead.
Others a baby might bathe in.
pots with cavetto zones,
Some have lugs and rims.
All are fired,
fusing the particles
3000 years ago they were clay.
|As Prayer||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|'Energy is an attribute of objects'||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|Folk Tapped Pots||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|How I know you||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|Pots Still||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|She that will have a pot out of the clay||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|The Words of the Pot to the Swallow||Poem by Lydia Harris|
|Tracing the Lines Exhibition Tankerness House||Poem by Lydia Harris|