It's Still Life

Ceramic Truths

The sun is splitting the sky open.
Night lifts,
a spill of milk — dawn
is like sleeping with the lights on.

My mug; always this one.
White, a black penny-farthing.
Tivoli. Copenhagen.
(Not Rome. Never been.
Though I do like pasta.)

The chip in the handle
fits my thumb like a worry stone,
a small devotion,
a memory of the morning
when I dropped it.

This is how a world is built:
not on grand geographies,
but on ceramic faith,
on ritual,
on knowing the weight

of warmth
your hands believe in.

And dawn’s light
relearns the window.