Oh how I love that second cup of coffee

splashed in the cold puddle in my cup,

remnant of what I drank fast, burning my

tongue on the quick heat and hit of caffeine

meant to yank me up to what the day holds,

and then remember the hurry time is past,

when the babies filled my arms to bursting,

and pointless employment gnawed my soul

like mice on a wedge of molding cheese.

This cup is for slow sipping, holding the

warmth in my hand as I ponder the yarn

that wants knitting, the scraps that need

quilting, the chickens their feeding, and

the bees, oh the bees, making honey

in my heart, whose songs I’m only just

beginning to sing.

© Dana Hughes 8.27.24