**Spilt Milk**

A glass tipped, a river flows,

Milk cascading, pure as snow,

A moment's slip, a fleeting fall,

And all that's left is what we know.

Pools of white on the kitchen floor,

Silent echoes of before,

Once held tight within our grasp,

Now gone, no chance to ask for more.

Of things we lose, and time that glides,

Life, like milk, will sometimes spill,

In mess and loss, in quiet still,

Yet from the floor, we rise again,

And find our strength in what we rebuild.