Ring on the Counter

A single cube, I’d left it there,

a frozen ghost upon the air.

Its edges sharp, its core so cold,

a perfect shape, a story told

of instant chill, a glass in hand,

a fleeting moment, planned.

Then later, just a silver pool,

a liquid mirror, soft and cool.

The ice was gone, no trace it kept,

but on the laminate, it wept

a perfect circle, faint and wet,

a silent promise, not forgotten yet.

The counter’s sheen, it held the trace,

a tiny scar, a hollow space.

A clear ring where a solid stood,

a disappearing, understood.

Just water now, that once was hard,

leaving its brief and shining card.