Everywhere is a mirror, if you care
to look: red porch floor made glossy
by wind-blown rain, hummingbird
hovering over its surface. Round
soup spoon skimming, dipped
beneath to snare a disc
of ginger, coarse ruffled leaf.
Your eyes: across these bowls
of cooling tea, dark irises
enclosed in softer brown. Late
risen moon: careless coin, forgotten
wish tossed into shallow water.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.