The Fleeting Embroidery of Steam

An ethereal breath, a weave of warm air,
rises in light spirals from the cup,
without weight or face, an ethereal scarf
that wraps the moment and then fades away.

It has no fixed contours, nor dwelling place,
only an ephemeral design that dances,
drawing arabesques that the air devours,
a visible sigh that is lost to sight.

Embroidery without thread, fabric without weave,
announces a warm sip, a moment of peace,
then it dissolves, though no one calls for it,
leaving only the warmth that does not fall silent.