Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 18 (200.)

There is something holy in
the wholly insignificant stirring of
creamer into coffee,
like the sun-tinged edge of bright blue sky
mixing with the dark blue, star-speckled night
at sunrise.
Passage from dark to day.
The first sip is always a little too hot, but
the next few roll down that hill to perfection.
It’s a miracle the mug’s contents aren’t
quaffed in a few moments.
Coffee sips are best taken slow, savored,
actually enjoyed
in the middle of a long stretch of calm
with no phones ringing,
and no emails waiting,
and no scatter-brained scrolling –
just the blue at the beginning of
the weekend, and you.

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