Oh, slow-drip moment caught in amber light,
When clocks forget their tyranny of gears—
That fragile span between the day and night
Where time dissolves in honeyed, golden tears.
The teacup holds its steaming hieroglyphs,
The window frames a portrait of the air,
The cat’s stretched shadow on the windowsill
Inscribes a language too precise to share.
What alchemist could bottle such a brew?
What merchant sell what cannot be possessed?
The dust motes dance their silent ballet through
A beam that names them holy as they rest.
Ephemeral cathedral! Briefest shrine!
The universe grows vast in breadths so thin.
