The Lizard in the Coffee Pot

The day began with a gesture unseen,  

a rustle in the silence before dawn.  

The light not yet fully spread across,  

I opened the lid, steam rising, thick,  

and there—life where I least expected—  

a lizard, small, trembling in the heat.  

What does it mean to find a heart there,  

to discover breath within the dark grind,  

between the bitter grounds of routine?  

Is it the world turning inside out,  

or a moment pausing before the plunge,  

before the pour, before the irrevocable?  

The creature blinks, a second too long—  

time slows, the kitchen sinks in shadow,  

and I am standing at the edge of a choice.  

To remove the intruder gently, swiftly,  

to let it live beyond the rim, the spout,  

or to steep it in the brew of my morning,  

to drink down its startled life, its tiny  

misstep that led it here, into my hands,  

into the warmth it sought without knowing,  

I watch it scramble, delicate, fragile—  

and wonder who it is that decides,  

who it is that brings us together here,  

in this brief exchange of heat and fate,  

as the first rays of sun split the air,  

as the world outside begins to stir,  

and the lizard leaps, gone, into the light.