I know not the substance you once held:
food or drink, poison, balm.
For the farmer or his wife,
whose work you did I can not tell.
The potter’s hands that gave you birth
have long ago returned to earth;
and you upon this antiques’ shelf
have wiled years and gathered dust.
I make you mine to hold the past.
I’ll give to you some humble task:
hold copper coins or paper clips
and feel you have purpose yet –
to fill your womb with any what
that I, your newest owner, wants