A cup of coffee, golden brown, mildly sweet,
sits on the table beside me.
I relax in the morning air and collect my thoughts.
This is the one thing I have in common with my great grandmother.
She, too, was a coffee lover.
So we sit,
me on a small balcony with a view of the Atlantic.
She on the back porch with a view of mountains.
These were probably the most peaceful moments of her day,
at the break of dawn,
as chickens awake,
as biscuit dough rises,
before she cuts thick bacon strips from a slab.
Soon the house would be full of morning aromas,
bacon, biscuits, fried eggs, grits, and coffee.
Aromas that waft through bedrooms on a mission
to wake sleeping ones from pleasant dreams.
But for now, this is the quiet of the morning she loved, same as I.