'Twas years ago, my little potter girl,
Her tiny hands had shaped a lump of clay.
Little fingers in artistic moves swirled,
Sculpting the wet earth for many a day.
With a single thought that for her mother it was..
A girl, a fusion of kitten and a bird,
Grave thoughts, them she would whittle away.
So tranquil, so composed her art;
Wondered how this figure she'd carved...
Gently as she lifted it out from her box,
Uncovered her treasure, A Clay Doll--
Like an unpainted relic, raw in form.
She sat with hands folded in her lap,
The swell of her long skirt falling around.
Unsmoothen'd hair was tied in a knot,
From her ears drooped two little round bobs.
On her face she had put a nose,
On her bosom had placed a whorled rose.
Wasn't surprised that her inspiration,
As spoke of Romulus-Remus and artifacts Harappan,
So had to be of ancient civilization.
The doll, like a figurine from antiquity,
An image of her purest soul.
Unglazed, unburnished form of earth.
In its quaintness, a rare beauty.
Has imprints of a little artist's hands,
Her delicate fluid touch on clay.
For Charlotte Puddifoot's contest : "Enter the 1st, 2nd & 3rd Place Poems"
For nette's contest : " Anything Handmade"