Tomato stain smudged on pristine cloth
sun blushes mild red through the whiteout,
singular evidence that the world
does not end at the bottom of my
garden and grounds for hope that the day
might reveal blue sky in time for the
morning green tea ritual; taken
these days gazing at the empty space
where the new bench will settle into
it’s own. Even as I write, treetops
emerge from the mist, still skeleton;
but, closer to the house, Skeeters Broom
uncurls blood red fingers nudging at
the gap. Nothing waits, the table is
laid, consumed, relaid; the morning tea
fractal