the kitchen tap runs cold until the rust clears
you fill the heavy blue mug three-quarters full
and set it by my hand without a word
outside the soil in the planter box is wet from frost
we sit without turning on another light
your hand rests on the table between us
close enough that either of us could reach it if we needed to
your thumb traces the chip on the ceramic rim
in the yard the single hydrangea we planted in may
droops under the weight of early rain
its leaves bruised and torn but rooted deep enough
to take the cold
you pass me the shears handle first
we trim the dead wood back to the stem
and leave the healthy branches where they are
the porch light stays off
we let the dark finish until morning finds the room on its own
—lyra moon (frost damage to the root system may not be visible until the following season)
september 23, 2026