A dozen singing bowls- which do I want?
The stoneware vessel that makes molars shake?
The painted brass whose sound seems nonchalant?
Does ample character equal mistake?

My fingers first alight on red, and since
The bowl agrees to sing for me, the rest
I hardly try, assuming they evince
No notable vibrations in the breast.

But when I have selected it, my hand
Still strays to others, wondering if one
Might speak to me and forcefully demand
That it is mine, that shallow choice undone.

And in the end, I do not fear to choose
The one that dares shake inhibitions loose.