Pottery

I sit at the wheel as I did 
when I was young. 
My hands pull the 
warm plastic sediment 
into cylinders like castle 
walls, molded and shaped 
by layers and layers of hands. 
The whirring rhythm of the wheel 
enchants my body, as my arms are 
drawn to flex with each rivet of the 
spinning clay. I think of the princess 
who in her youth, dreamed of the 
escape into lands of freedom, far 
from the tower of thorned ivy. 
I am creating the pot that will 
hold irises and wildflowers. 
With the rib-tool, I smooth 
the base and lip, trimming 
excess, with a sponge, I 
soak the water, as the 
wheel winds down.