Roots in Cold Coffee

Memory rests a hand upon the edge of the cold coffee cup.
It doesn’t burn, it listens to the silence between glass and time.
Every grayed reflection becomes a small domestic memory.
The breath of the room becomes present, discreet.
In the icy bottom it sows roots
memories that do not yield to warmth.
Every sip ignites a sleeping voice
and makes lost names sprout in the leather of the heart.
In the asphalt’s breath open up streets
traces of tires, hurried steps, scents of evening.
Memory weighs down between signals and lights,
and the roots search for earth among the concrete.
Drinking, memory resists and grows
roots that keep the past present.
The cup remains earth and the street a light wind,
until life flowers in cold between rhythm and memory.