Four cubes in a glass — transparent. Passing. From the glass so close with no way to reach the amber horizon with white crest Unbidden a sprig of chamomile — the only one I have received keeps me company Dry flowers stay with me drinking from me Some day I will return to my balance they will bloom again and I'll become my destiny
Statement
This poem came out of a surrealist poetry workshop. The prompt was simple: write from the perspective of a cup of ice with a beer and a sprig of chamomile nearby.
I sat with those objects for a while and somewhere in that stillness the ice started feeling familiar. The longing for something just out of reach, a dry chamomile sprig as unexpected company, and the quiet peace of knowing that change is coming, not as loss, but as return.
The ice knows it’s nothing but a blink of an eye . That’s not the sad part. The sad part is how close the beer is.