That First Cup

That early morning ritual
Dark, swirling, steaming liquid
Held by, but also warming, two cold cupped hands
Slowly lifted to parted lips

Then with eyes closed shut against the insistent gloom,
Slowly breathing in the rich aroma
And then sipping, ever so slowly sipping,
That precious brew.

Outside the rain streaked and foggy window,
Accompanied by the muted sounds of steel on steel,
the world races past, to see where I have been.
But I, with my cup, sit, unchanging , uncaring,

Oblivious in my benediction.