Every Second
Tuesday morning,
Steam rises from a cup,
catches light,
becomes architecture
for three seconds.
The cat's shadow
crosses the wall
a sundial no one reads.
A million thoughts converge:
the spoon's small clink,
the way light refuses to stay still,
the persistent green of a single leaf.
This, too, is scripture.
Every second,
a poem with depth
we forget to read.
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