Fire Cakes

Hunched over a cup of coffee,

searing hot,

there is a world all to oneself

that no one else can share.

Sitting in the breakfast nook,

on a morning damp and rainy,

fall swept leaves strewn on the ground,

one savors its tepid taste,

enjoying an ultimate privacy with nature.

Dreams are made in such ‘idle’ times

or reality of shattered hopes endured

as one ponders its tepid taste,

that is there, enriching, consoling.

It is the starter of the day,

the sure shot beginning,

a calmer or motivator

that punctures the haziness of sleep.

It is, to the tired traveler,

a revitalizer of tired backs and sore bones,

a refresher to push on

‘til home again.

It is the sustainer

in grueling presures,

a fortifier of strength,

pumping adrenaline to the mind,

enduring, persisting.

It is, in a cup, mug or disposable,

an undefined power,

a catalyst,

the salve between parties split,

the bridge to understanding differences.

Even the empty cup is symbolic

of a persons dreams, decisions, defeats,

drained to the last darkened drops

that bore testimony to its need.