by Justine C. Tajonera
I didn't miss the brew
until I tasted it
again.
For the longest time
I endured
mediocrity in
sachets.
But there is something
more than satisfying
about the ritual
of the press.
The ground beans
fill my nostrils
with memory,
an addictive
sharp awakening
in the morning.
A tablespoon and
a half,
boiled water,
mix.
A minute of bated
breath,
then the descent
of the press,
filtering the grains
leaving only
the essence.
Then the brown sugar
and the cream.
Another
few minutes of
taste, scent, steam
bathing my
face,
a life happily
suspended.
(Jan. 4, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/splunkton/168743021/
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