Dark Roast Ritual

The grinder's violence, a low growl

that settles, quiets every howl

of morning's chaos. Scent of earth

and dark-roast comfort, strange rebirth

of purpose. Steam against the pane,

obscuring grey, washing the rain

from yesterday's rough edges.

It's not the jolt, the lift it pledges,

but the still point. The measured pour,

the moment standing by the door

of consciousness, before the day

demands its toll, and sweeps away

the quiet, solid, steady thing

this dark, hot cup begins to bring.