If my cup of coffee was a tree, then the rings inside of it would mark how many years I’ve been sitting at this table,
Each sip traces the mouthful I’ve tried to write,
and the darkness of each line whispers about the amount of attention I forgot to give it.
Its lip wears the shade of the season – a deep red,
collected in smatterings around its breadth, at random.
If I drink all of it,
perhaps I can build a poem with its remains.