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