Amalia Dorion
I curl my fingers around the cold, ceramic handle,
My favorite blue speckled mug,
The kettle bubbles with warmth and steam,
The French press stands tall, ready for its daily duty.
Two scoops with the soft wooden spoon,
Stirred in with the steeping water,
It turns a thick, muddy, brown shade,
As it gets pressed, down, down, down.
I pour the thick, creamy milk into the mug,
Stark white against the bright blue,
Steamed and frothed to perfection,
In goes the nearly black fluid, lightened by the foamy, bleached liquid.
A doey, light brown,
Grasped in my hands,
A melting away of the morning chill,
Admired by sleep heavy eyes.
An experience many have every day,
Yet one that few truly admire,
An act of self love in its simplest form,
A daily tradition that so many overlook.
For a cup of coffee,
Symbolizes a new day, a new opportunity,
Attention to detail, senses, enjoyment,
A true form of art.
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