Coffee cools
in cup
as empty
pot waits 
maybe more
or wash
as blush
settles on
the mountains 
as morning 
pinks paint 
and blues
bubble burgundy 

Peace does that 
it allows for 
the sediment and 
the sentiments to
stir themselves up 
and into frenzy 
for peace knows 
that even muck
and misery deserves 
its own place 
to be free 
and washed away 

Freedom be
in waking
but dreams 
I’m trapped 
maybe so
but I 
always escape 
finally back
to this 
my place 

Like some ship
coming into port
in deep fog
sleep barely lifts 
but gives way 
as I move 
from bedding deep 
into kitchen reef
of fragile cups
and the whistle 
of the kettle 
a fog horn 
from the lighthouse 
says it’s done 
time for coffee 

It’s days 
not nights 
that haunt
must do 
keep distracted 
or those 
memories come 
like the 
postman down 
the lane