Not a glaze but a stain
covers from the neck to the expansion,
what rings if rapped,
to the equator where it unfurls
in even, wide runs
from a darker to a lighter taupe.
The thin base sits most noble,
that raw, fired clay almost the same
color as the crown.
The handles, well, they seem a joke.
No hand or thumb could grip them.
This jug, like a world, owns
its place and will move
If I had to be anything so simple
I would be this vase in two coats of glaze
standing on any shelf as my own....
Except at a closer look, see how centuries
have crazed this patina
like waves rippled in crosswind.
link to the exhibit