Some Mornings
I see you in a jar
of wild mountain honey
atop the kitchen table
trapping the first amber
light at dawn. Fossilized
stare. The past rushing
past until something
sticks in the mind.
A frieze. A frown.
A furrowed brow.
A tarnished silver
tea spoon twinkling
next to the cup your
lips would sip from.
Nearly invisible red
trace on the chipped
white rim. Your absence
is never really gone.
It leaves a space not
even nothing can fill.