MOROCCAN BOWL
You are holding it in your hand,
it fills out your entire palm.
Glazed terracotta bowl, whitish
with turquoise symbols that
gaily, lightly lead around,
circling. Fluttering, in a way.
In the early light they keep still.
When the day rises, they cry:
milk. You are amazed, wondering
about the hassle. But you don't
step aside calmly. Water sounds
better. Tea sounds best. The
green one with mint. The bowl
stares at you. In the tea you see
yourself. Distorted. Then
the signs begin to speak
like crickets. Through the
the haze you recognize that the
word tufts are twitching.
It's handcraft at work.
Each time this transformation.
Each time you are ready for it.
You are holding it in your hand,
it fills out your entire palm.
Glazed terracotta bowl, whitish
with turquoise symbols that
gaily, lightly lead around,
circling. Fluttering, in a way.
In the early light they keep still.
When the day rises, they cry:
milk. You are amazed, wondering
about the hassle. But you don't
step aside calmly. Water sounds
better. Tea sounds best. The
green one with mint. The bowl
stares at you. In the tea you see
yourself. Distorted. Then
the signs begin to speak
like crickets. Through the
the haze you recognize that the
word tufts are twitching.
It's handcraft at work.
Each time this transformation.
Each time you are ready for it.