Ode to Morning Coffee

Fresh ground Irving Farm coffee,
my favorite,
because in our family
we are coffee snobs
in the most devoted way.

Morning begins
before language,
before the world asks anything of me.

I wake with the sun,
go downstairs,
and enter the ritual
so many of us perform ~
this small ceremony
of bean, water, heat, breath.

I think of the farmers
who grew this coffee,
hands in soil,
backs bent toward weather,
people I may never meet
and yet here they are,
in my kitchen,
on Riseley Lane Extension,
offering me the first kindness
of the day.

I froth the milk
and add a dark dash of cinnamon ~
my father used to do that.
So good.

The cup was made by Irina,
clay shaped by her hands,
earth turned into vessel,
vessel turned into warmth,
warmth held between my palms.

I stand at the window
looking toward Overlook Mountain,
settling into a peaceful posture,
feeling how blessed I am
to receive this early morning gift.

Coffee, mountain,
cup, father,
farmers, family,
friends, neighbors,
the whole human community
hidden in this one dark sip.

And still,
somewhere,
bombs are dropping.
War is humming,
drumming
in another neighborhood.

So I do not take this cup lightly.

I hold it like a prayer.
I drink it like a vow.

May all beings
wake to warmth.
May all hands be fed.
May every home
know one quiet morning
where the sun rises,
the birds sing in the dawn,
and peace
has somewhere
to begin.

Jayne~