On Coffee

I wake up every day,
sometimes early, sometimes late.

It is the one certainty I have,
in this most uncertain situation.

My body moves first,
my mind follows later.

To say I am alive then — would be a lie?

To say I am dead then — would be the truth?

It matters not.

For the hand has grabbed the beans,
and placed them in the grinder.

They cannot be too coarse, nor too thin —
lest they disrupt the taste,
perhaps just like life.

I pour water over the ground beans,
let them simmer for a while —
for they too deserve to revel
in the joy of being.

The time until the roasting is complete
feels like an eternity — and an instant.

A liminal space,
where the ritual grants permission to breathe,
for the rest of the day may not be so kind.

When I take my first sip,
it is a reminder of the infinite potential of things:
someday too bitter, someday too light —
but someday, as if struck by a divine spark,
it is just right.

One desires this taste to persist,
but it only lasts for two or three sips.

There too, perhaps, lies the beauty —
for I get to experience it at all.

And what a joy it is.

The birds sing,
the wind moves,
and unbeknownst to me,
a smile appears on my face too.

"What a joy to have coffee."