Clay Curmudgeon

Titular pottery smells high heaven in a medium swamp
misjudging the easiest scent to place the feet in better light -- 
water swirls, squirreling away scut work, to divide 
and re-conquer the just-under-the-land stuff of bowls
cloying to the hand and insipid to the ear
fearful of disturbance, freezing in a long, high heat
unmovable to the touch and irreconcilable at a fall --
shattering well, and taking collection
with an ounce of blood
giving an irritable splinter
to the hand that fed and shaped it.