Ritual (Poetry)

Every day is set to start this way —
there is no other beginning that will satisfy
the drowsy god of morning.

Steam to purify —
chase away the demons left by night
the aroma of dry leaves when water pours
fresh-boiled upon them —
lifting out the blended smells
of eastern hill slopes hot under the sun
the spice from foreign earth
a trace from hands that picked and packed
traditional tin-lined wooden chests
with magic names stamped deep into the grain.

Through all the western seasons
it is the most necessary ritual — before all others
this seeping and release — this offering
a gift — a golden-brown infusion —
the stirring of the potion like a spell.

We sip — thirsty for its comfort
and on swallowing sense we’re cleansed somehow —
spiritually renewed
by this first cup of the day.