Spoon

The spoon lies, helpless, on its back,
without self-pity, ready to be used, or left;
Permanently indifferent to what it carries, if anything:
Air and light and sometimes sugar.
Never more than it’s capable of holding.
Unsentimental about letting go.
Uncompromisingly responsive
to the handler’s manual skills.
Always reflecting the world,
though often inaccurately,
especially when left to itself.
Hot or cold, runny, sticky or powdery stuff: no complaint.
Soundless unless sounded.
Still unless moved.
Nothing happens unless it does.
Neither at war nor in peace.

But even the tiniest light is acknowledged
and gracefully handed back to the cosmos
of saucers and cups.