An Instagram Poem

Vase

In some obscure town in Portugal the potter left his mark. When did he finish it? Where were the fields of yellow daisies? When the object went into the kiln, did he think of the blue sky he once laid under by a river with his lover? The potter had enthusiasm for its shape and contour; tall and robust, small neck like a woman. It appears to have something that men think about. And men think about fields, country roads, edges and woods with the strong scent of spring. The vase will be thirsty for his plucked yellow daises, valentina, or gold acacia, for her table.