You are finishing breakfast
in the early morning silence of Sunday
and hearing the widespread world at rest outside,
a hum in the street of a settled empty sky
with a hint of the other world, quiet and near,
you watch your familiar things on this shore,
the soul of your skin a halo on their surfaces,
the teapot, the bread and honey, the large cup,
silent and yours, shiny on the edge,
they will most probably outlive you,
you gaze at the tranquility of their rims
with eyes that can't help but smile,
yes, we will all be swallowed up but you can't be sure
these things won't leave their own traces
like the stubborn gusts of wind around the standing stones,
among the other world's many ways
it's the absolute silence of absence you are most afraid of
but this pewter and porcelain are so present
that they can challenge the dark of what's always impending,
after the last sip you keep embracing
the still warm cup with the palm of your hand,
your nice little challenge.