Shawn Aveningo

I wake up to an empty coffee pot,
remember I forgot to buy a new bag of beans.
I brew a hot cup of tea instead.
Egyptian Licorice—the winning flavor
picked from a large apothecary glass jar.

I put away the fake-sugar sweetener,
decide to splurge, indulge.
My spoon overflows with clover honey,
the good stuff—organic,
bought at a roadside fruit stand.

I think about that brown-skinned boy
the way he smiled, beamed with pride,
how he let me sample the cherries—
the ones he picked while dew still glistened,
side-by-side with his brother.

The whistling kettle startles me,
halts my morning daydream.
A cup of hot tea has a charming way
of commanding me to savor its flavor—
stark contrast to my normal hurried bolt of caffeine.
The honey, its soothing gift—an awakening,
gratitude for a new day.

At day’s end, I skinny dip
in my pool under the moonlight
I spy a stilled honeybee
floating in the cool blue oasis.
Agapanthus lean in prayer.
Daylilies sleep to hide their sorrow.
I whisper a quiet thank you,
scoop his tiny body into my palm.