Moving on from celadon to cellar door,
From beauty not quite useless to utility
Not without beauty that raw planks restore
In clumsy recompense like paint on filigree;
Noticeable, forgivable, unsmoothed,
This joinery of visual and tactile
Warps between the hinges and the handle
That suns have gripped, millennia have used;
The shapes of opalescence open tangible,
Moldering wood green molded glaze infused;
The depths well up, the surfaces re-move,
Swing up into the everyday from fractal,
And stand robust while masquerading as fragile.