The glass so cold against my hand

The glass, so cold against my hand,

attracting all the summer's heat.

A silver mist, across the land

of ice-filled tea, so bitter-sweet.

It blurred the world beyond its pane,

the kitchen window, green outside.

Then one fat bead, like sudden rain,

began its slow, deliberate slide.

It traced a path, a shining streak,

for just a moment, clear and wide.

Before the fog came back to seek

its claim, and nothing could quite hide.

The single drop, a perfect tear,

then met the coaster, left its ring.

And all the clarity, held so near,

was just a temporary thing.