not with birdsong
or the echo of the trees,
but with the hum of the kettle
and the spoon circling the mug
like a small ritual
performed for no one but me.
The first sip is steam
and warmth,
and something in me
unbuttons.
Nothing is happening.
A truck passes.
The dog sighs in his sleep.
The neighbor’s wind chime stirs,
then quiets.
But I am here,
sip by sip,
becoming again
someone I almost forgot.
In this pause—
before the daybreak kind
that moment between wakefulness
and sleep
and unspoken longing—
I feel the deep, unshakable truth:
that I am
not what I produce,
or fix,
or explain.
I am just this—
awake.
Held together
by breath,
by memory,
by the dark swirl in the bottom
of a chipped white cup.
And by the last sip,
gone cool
but still holy,
I am not alone.
Not with myself,
not with the day.
Even the smallest hour
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