The Mandala of Dried Coffee

A distracted drop, brown and warm,
escaped the smooth edge of a cup,
spread upon the light table,
a minimal lake, without distant breeze.
Then time, invisible sculptor,
caressed it with silent hush.

The steam raised ethereal wings,
leaving a sign, a delicate perimeter,
then concentric circles, mysterious ways,
like an ancient map, a fragile exile
drawing of shadow, of dense pigment,
an astronomy that finds no sense.

No one looks anymore, no one hears
its quiet secret, its worth.
Yet, in the ephemeral, a knot
of perfection reveals its splendor.
A cosmos in miniature, daily,
forgotten and yet so sovereign.