The palm of my hand
shrinks this miniscule
vessel, not yet made,
fully formed. A soft
seat shimmers the
middle green liquid,
tempting the nose
and one loose lip. I
calm at the inner
sight, this ceramic
blue bowl, eager
to be full of my
eye, unabashed
at the insides
outside. A mandala
shines into focus
upon the lower
order curves, giving
fractal imagination
pause and sweeping
the icon's floor for
expectations. Assumptions
cannot stand, are delivered
from themselves, their self-
destructive ways. When
the season changes, the
scattered shards are gathered,
tucked, and buried, awaiting
history's approbation. A new
cup appears, yellow inside,
plus-pattered navier blue to
the touch.
Roman Ryan 