A celadon ground scattered with dark ash-green speckle, the way lichen takes to old stone. The colour deepens toward the corners and breaks pale in the middle — a surface that reads as weather rather than pattern, and asks to be run under the hand.
This is the colour of a stone that has been left alone. I laid down a celadon, quiet and grey-green, and let the ash fall where it wanted — and it gathered the way moss gathers, thicker in the shade of the corners, thinning to almost nothing in the light. People ask me how I made the pattern. I tell them I did not make it. I made a place for it to happen, and then I waited.
