The First Ring

The morning hums, a low machine,

a ritual, a placid scene.

Before the world begins its shout,

this dark elixir I pour out.

It isn't just the bitter taste,

the hurried gulp, the anxious haste.

It is the pause, the gentle steam,

a waking from a troubled dream.

The counter holds a perfect round,

where liquid cooled and made no sound.

A silent mark, a fleeting grace,

a moment held in time and space.

It grounds the noise, it stills the fight,

this humble cup, this morning light.