The coffee cooled in my hand

The coffee cooled in my hand.

Opposite, a window box,

a small pot of geraniums,

suddenly unbalanced.

It tipped.

A slow tilt, a suspension

of gravity, then the rush.

End over end, a brown blur

against the pale brick.

I didn’t move.

Just watched it meet the concrete,

a sharp, sudden sound,

like a dropped plate.

Shards scattered,

soil spilled, a green stem

still reaching, impossibly.

The afternoon held its breath,

and I just held my cup.