Slow Spill

The tap runs slow, a lazy drip—

not quite hot, not quite cold.

I cup the water, hesitant, still,

a half-filled glass that won’t hold.

It pools, a breath caught in the sink,

waiting like a ghost for heat to rise.

The edge of warmth, a quiet blink,

drifting soft in empty skies.

Between cold steel and trembling hand,

a shallow river’s timid spill.

I stand and wait, nothing planned,

stillness bending soft and chill.