I’ve found my zen moment, my word, my repetition, my quiet place
my series of motions that elicit the desired effect.
It’s the sound of the grinder in the morning, the whirling of the blades, the history of
how it got here, and how it tastes so good.
The anticipation of pouring the water and
slipping in the filter and
measuring just the right amount.
My morning science.
It slips and melts and drips and and concocts itself without much of my help at all.
The sound of measuring instruments clanking against porcelain
the steam coming up high and twisting as the timing sets off.
The heat – too hot – gotta wait –
slipping your hand over to feel it, knowing it’s not quite there
never quite sure what it will taste like today.
Maybe it’s addiction, maybe it’s routine, maybe (I’ll say it is)
my happy place.
But nothing else is quite the same like a hot fresh pot of coffee.