Lost Names

Upon a misty ledge they lie
the lost names of ordinary things
cup, eraser, key, iron sail,
in a breath that knows no time.
The mist keeps them like pale lights,
among threads of rain and silence.
Each word shrouds itself, invisible to the touch,
holding the weight of the mundane.
At dawn, a calling brings back the names
the cup whispers, the key breathes,
and the house finds the name of what is simple.