It was given to me small, whorled like my brother's tongue
in the game when we were children, its three leaves
wrapped up tight in themselves, barred as an oyster.
I can scarcely remember what happened in between:
how many months (or pots) it took to enter
its own abundance. Now it hangs full and excitable
over my fireplace, concerned mostly with maintenance.
Come morning, after I've moved all night from room
to room in search of sleep, and I can sometimes witness it
lower its fringe of adjustable oars beneath the rim
of its lazuli bowl, as though blushing, or weeping.
Then, by evening, before the sky has acknowledged that
-already- the light is draining, catch it levering
its slow arms towards heaven again, mindful as Islam.
is it praying in the dark or in the daytime?