not coffee

there are mornings the coffee tin is full and unopened. one of these mornings, no decision made, the small clay pot comes down and is rinsed with hot water. a pinch of dark oolong, perhaps. a different alertness arrives. quieter, more sideways. the day does not get pushed into; it is entered.

this is the tea of the seven-o'clock hour when the radio has not been turned on. taken at dawn, with the kitchen still cold under the feet. the walker has it before going out; the custodian has it on the third stair, where the post sits.

refilled four or five times from the same leaves. the cup keeps coming back. by the fourth pour the tea has nearly nothing left to say, which is exactly what mornings want.