The wick in the wax that fills the glass is lit
in silence I observe
each flicker a flash back to a
recalled gestures.

And at the end of the day
After wax is cleansed,
washed out, the plain glass remains.

I recall my grandfather
drinking hot tea from that very glass
a spoon in the glass
to prevent it from cracking from the heat.

The glass will find its place
on the shelves of glasses
indistinguishable from the others.

Using that glass becomes a sacred act
Holiness is not outside the
cupboard of ordinary life.

The sacred is not in some
other-worldly precinct,
deposited in some shrine.

Here glass that once contained wax
in memory of the deceased
now holds tea and milk and coffee
held to the lips
its contents
swallowed, absorbed.

What loving memory
to know that my beloved continues
to nurture me
posthumously,
a love that outlives yesterday.

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