Coffee

The best days start slow. Dawn light leaking

past curtains, weakening as the year turns to face

Winter. The best days pull me behind 

two dachshunds into the world. Always a wonder,

frosted silver, dripping rain, fragrant with old leaves,

new flowers, spit snowflakes or warmed with birdsong.

The best days begin with perfect coffee, dark roast,

chocolate shaken in, one, two, a couple packets

of sweetener, cinnamon dashed, a drop of cream.

Scent of it drags the dogs and me up the stairs,

into the house. They anticipate their breakfast.

Sometimes I mix the ratio wrong. Magical potion

imbalances, and the day follows suit.

The best days catch up correspondence on my tablet in bed,

dogs laid like logs between my legs, cat in the window

daring the sun for warmth. The best days start with stories, I am

still the child who asks for a story before bed.

Stories, poetry, a necessity like air or water or food.

No other cup of coffee matters like that first one. 

It can make or break the day that weaves above the mug 

writhing ribbons of steam.

By Rachael Ilkins