Ode to the Waiting Glass

The clink of ice greets the quiet dawn,  

a soft percussion in my favorite glass.  

Cold air kisses my fingertips,  

while cream curls slow through amber swirls – 

clouds drifting in a tiny storm of gold.  

The scent of roasted warmth rises steady,  

wrapping itself around the kitchen air.  

It hums in silence,  

rich and familiar, like comfort wearing perfume.  

I listen to the slow drip of caffeine and calm,  

each drop a promise that morning will be kind.  

The first sip meets my tongue – bold, sweet, alive – 

a dance of chill and fire,  

where bitterness turns soft, and bright again.  

Outside, the light begins to spill,  

and in my hands, the glass begins to sweat quietly, 

a small universe waking up within me.