The Potter

I formed it out of clay,
wet it with the river,
moulded sunshine into its form
and scooped it into its home.

It lay there a while
ripening in the dark,
flesh turning sweet
then sour and rotten.

They thanked me with tears
rolling down into rivers
that bucked and split
into floods and disaster

I took their offerings;
used them to wet the clay
as it spun once again
on my wheel.