the morning ritual

 Quietly sitting 

I try to coax my spirt back into

my body

I say the magic words

"Trader Joes

Dark French Roast

18 dollars a pound..."

and brew that concoction

that lures my soul

back from its

nocturnal wanderings

 

as I wait for 

my synapses 

those holy spaces

between dendrites

to fill with magic

I ponder the passing seasons.

A nice spring,

followed by a 

good summer.

Not too hot

and enough swell

to keep the kids 

out of trouble.

*a little hot 

towards the end though

That's all behind us now

The future

is uncertain

and only a second cup

will tell