Letter, to Order

Sin cere: Where did I read about this mark
potters stamped on the bottoms of earthenware, of drying

crockery? Without peer, meaning not a copy,
original; baked terra cotta, crackled brown, bread-like

surface of imperfections. Around the courtyard, in the day’s
last glaze of heat, curling vines gather. Fronds of fern

spiral back toward themselves at their tips. I tuck the ends
of my worries like that sometimes: like hair behind my ears.

What I would give for such a sign, to tell me
of the genuine, or promise what will not change again—

But for now, only something in the name of the lilac
to suggest its scent; something in the aspect of the moon.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.