How to Drink from the Cup of Silence

I incline to the center to stay close to home— carapace
of dust from the milling crowd outside the window.

The street lights go off one after another, the ring of mist
diffuses in the dispersal of a cloud of bees.

I sit in this tight circle eying how far others throw their nets:
some come back to stuff dirt of the earth in their mouths;

most, uprooted, listen to the tree fall in the distant forest
in a soft thud of grief as they hold their mug of coffee

and look out at the snow-covered driveway. How do I hold
her in tenderness? One way of tending a life is to stand in a queue

at the shop as beans get roasted. It takes time to prepare
a tumbler of frothy coffee— a lifetime if it is the final gulp.

You in your chair overlooking the deck and I on my terrace where
the hibiscus shrub is eaten by mealybugs, holding the cup of silence.