Stone Cauldron

--nothing and something, closer and then
whistles from a distant train flowing from my fingertips
like a brush too thick with paint, might as well
be the lone feather; fluttering, between journey
and destination, as a species of words
clouds bloom from grey to winter rain, heavy sheets
changed slowly over to sleet, silver window glass rippling
lapping at square bowls of milk with
the same movement as the sea, that sucks back
like a distant faded memory 
--beyond, in the fading backdrop, a sun
plucks a darkening thread from its eye, down further
the house sways, moaning like the hold of a sinking ship
--later, bottomed out and dry, the roof becomes
an overturning umbrella, searching for flavor 
in the deep scratches left in chipped porcelain, rose hips
and lemon grass, what's left of a dainty cracked 
cornflower ring, and an ember glowing from a fire