Morning Cup
by Carolin Messier
The glimpse of blue
yesterday
has once again
been muffled by grey.
The bare trees
drip.
The eaves
drip.
And the coffee maker
drips.
But its steaminess
releases the scent
of leather books, conversations, and contemplation
as the incessant March rain
nonetheless
unleashes sprout from bulb
and leaf from bud.
As it sputters
its final sighs,
not death by drowning—
but morning life
into my waiting cup,
it pours.
Writes With Pencils 
Love it. There’s a fine turning in the words… like the season.
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Thank you! My mind has been occupied by several weighty matters lately but as I tried to puzzle them out in verse this morning, I simply exhaled into the aromatic moment, felt its lightness and felt grateful.
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Did I mention that I’ve taken to pencil and notes again? It happened on a road trip with my son – but I think was encouraged indirectly by you. I’m writing more and see it opening up as a result. Thanks for that!
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Chris, I just found this comment. Pencil and notes, how lovely. And road trips are such a source for word-wandering minds’ inspiration, aren’t they? I love going on road trips with my stepson; we’re overdue for one. The inspiration is mutual. I’m writing more lately too. It’s good for me.
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That morning life – that first cup!
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It’s really the ritual more than anything: the preparation, the aroma, the warming of the cup, and the texture of the glazed ceramic cup on lips.
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The breathy steam, the crushed bean, the seeping smell of coffeed morning, lovely rich, spring tide words, well written.
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Adrian, this comment is a poem itself. As always your thoughts on my work means a great deal to me.
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A really good poem.
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, enjoyed this poem with my first cup –
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Awww, perfect!
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Very beautifully written!!
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Thank you for your kind words.
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