Brewing Coffee

The warm memory of my grandfather’s percolator singing
in the chill of an Oklahoma dawn
wakes me on cold Nevada mornings.

I get up and walk barefoot across the freezing tile floor.

In the kitchen,
I measure the ebony grounds into the basket
of the drip coffee maker,
then I put water in the tank
and turn the contraption on.

As I watch,
the dark liquid begins to drip into the carafe,
while the coffee maker’s melody whispers
sweet nothings to my mind.

I inhale,
the aroma of dawn reverberating
through the silent morning and carrying
to my sleeping soul the song of a new day.