best intentions

there is a ceramic vase in my kitchen,
wrapped up and unfired.
it has sat there in a bag for months,
placating every one of my moods,
laughing at moons and suns and every click of time.

it has lines like paths and colors of class,
with hopes of palisades and romantic getaways.
it’s ruddy unglazed disdain snakes like a wandering troubadour,
reminding me that it is unfinished and free,
signaling that it’s coup de grace is never near.

in my kitchen there is a ceramic vase,
square and awkward, waterless.
it cares not for the paint on the wall,
nor whether I finish it at all.
Because as I said,
it has not been fired.