Leaves and vines and flowers in porcelain. The red stain: clay. Tried making a mold; didn't work.
White is glaring, examining, purifying. Find it imposing, comforting, all rolled into one.
Such a pain to clean, white. Holds stains with sticky fingers. Reminding, remembering, always there.
Without the remembering, we'd vanish; without the reminding, we'd forget.
There was frost on the bird feeder yesterday, all jagged edges, a haze of frosting on a verdigris cake.
Learning to live with glaring white is illuminating.
Resting, knowing, it holds reminders, memories like a string of porcelain vines...