In hot water,
into the grind,
the grounds
of black semantic
overture.
Simple strain,
drips, rip, tip
my conscience
awake,
then steal time
to brim the rim.
Steam lifting,
Cream diving,
touch bottom,
to rise as a dream,
spreading like an
early morning kiss
of fog, dulling the
pain, easing
the tension
between the dark
night
and singed
light.
A sip of silence.
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A comforting morning ritual to ease you into the day is a must in order to be properly awake.
My one year stint as a cross border delivery driver would start at 3 am. I’d get myself ready and have my breakfast ritual. I fill my bowl with rice crispies, pour milk over the cereal, turn on the radio so you could only hear it if one was within 6 inches. Sit on a chair, tilt it back against the radio and eat my cereal with my eyes closed. If the bowl was empty before I was ready to hit the road I have a second bowl. Never a third.
Snap, Crackle, Pop!
Gerald the Writer 
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