Psalm 727

For the Director, to the tune of

“The Cup of Mourning.”

Dawn, in her tattered veils, wafts
one last breath over the pond
like a bridal train;
the ivory mesh snags,
opening on a rain-pearled leaf,
a peeling scroll of birch
inked with cryptic lines—
alas, no message there for a widow.
French press steeps
as layers of gauze keep parting,
God’s hand there, stirring
a glimpse within
morning’s swirl of cream
marbled through coffee,
easing this ache we call alone.
She misreads it as all one—funneling
down the angled
steam, the stem of a spoon:
the cup half-full, after all.