They were a single surface until the moment they were not. Pigment bloomed between two ceramic bisques and the sisters came apart. What remains is relief: a dried lakebed seen from above, polygonal plates around a central lagoon, a shoreline still holding the tear.
Tile A kept the darker well — the yellow of late sun through pondweed, still sitting in the floor of a near-black basin, veined with a thinner blue. Tile B kept the brighter weather: green still wet, pulled into rings, a cream lagoon and one slash of glacier cyan. A lobe of green rises on Tile A and will not lie flat. On Tile B a spray of green was thrown off, the water leaving. The pull was uneven. The kinship is not.
Together they are one pool remembered twice. Same concentric country, same chlorophyll hush. The white bisque around them is silence, wet stone after rain. They do not complete each other. Each tile's only sibling is the one it was born with.
Looking down into two wells that were one pool until they came apart. Green still wet — leaf after rain, pine in shadow. In one basin the yellow sits like late sun caught in pondweed. In the other a slash of cyan cuts a cream lagoon — glacier water, colder light. The relief is the shoreline the water left behind. A spray. A lobe that would not lie. Sister tiles. One kinship. The white bisque is the hush they were drawn into.
Chlorophyll Kin — Listen
