First Sip

like the first time Grandma poured you a cup

out of habit: black, too hot, the way Grandpa had liked it.

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the first time you ordered coffee, at Welsh’s, later in life,

and its sharp, bitterness gripped your tongue like rust.

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the first time you sweetened it with honey and cane sugar

and its savory embrace, like a woman’s hand on your shoulder.

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the first time you tried a morning without

and your anxiety cascades; how can you face the world,

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and what happens if it no longer helps

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and its dark stains spread despite your efforts

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and fitful dozes ensnare you, inevitable like nightfall?

Without wind, winter’s cloak wraps tight

around my shoulders as I take up my task:

scuffles of my nylon jacket sleeves rubbing

together, plastic shovel scrapes along

the wooden floor as each nail shivers

and creaks beneath my booted steps.

My breaths convert to brief ethereal shape,

I’m not so much frozen but sated

by my existence, my purpose. Each thrust

of the blade into the snowpack heaped

and glistening in quiet moonlight yields

an immediate result, and that feels good.

What else is there to look for

in the completion of menial tasks?

The snow is unfinished business, and I wonder,

if in its completion lies the only meaning

that matters.