The poem begins on a walk. A stick clicks against the ground, and from a rock comes the faint buzz of a rattlesnake. It's a small jolt of danger, and the speaker seems alert rather than panicked, as if the warning is just part of the landscape.
From there the poem slips into storytelling. The old wives' tales, it says, are full of surprises: you go out for something simple like water and come home with a strange new lover. The phrase "a wryness" in the title fits the tone, which is knowing and a little amused, as though these women understood how easily plans go sideways.
The last stanza turns to pottery. A single coil of clay becomes a bowl, even a mirror to drink from. But the final line, "something always gets loose," pulls the images together. Whether you are making, telling or walking, the thing you shape will slip free somewhere. The mood is watchful, playful and quietly accepting of that.