not the pine cone
nor the slight blades pushing skyward
but the vague shape of trees
in the morning mist
the softness of smouldering oak
and how the words drift up
like steam from the rim
not the clock’s collusion with time
nor the name of the bird
as it departs the mulberry tree
but the departing itself
the way the sound taps
every chamber wall
the cup is empty now
except for its heat
holding the shape of your grasp
and in that warmth
I shiver now
in that soft indent
where nothing was held
not even the light
that stayed just long enough
to show us the contours
of the chair-back
