I’m formed from clay

turned on the potter’s wheel.

Spinning made me

and I spin still.

Smoothed thumb and finger

and wet earth.

From honest mud,

that was my birth.

The gods made me to carry the can.

Poor womankind, to get the blame from man.

They put in my possession all the gifts

without my knowing

when the pot was raw,

that they were t...

Read and leave comments (11)