A tiny constellation of spices

Stir my soul awake

temple bells

some mornings,
i’ll wake and the world feels
gentle—
like a cup filled just right.

no spills,
no overflows,
just the right warmth
and space to hold it all.

the steam
soft against my face.
a moment
lingers
long enough to notice

how light pools
in corners of the room,
how birds sound like
temple bells in the wind.

and i think,
this is it.

---

but other mornings,

the cup
o
v
e
r
f
l
o
w
s.

coffee on the table,
on the floor,
on my hands.

the day feels
already too full,
too grubby—
everything clamoring
for attention
before i’ve even sipped.

Author’s Note:

Writers and their drinks—coffee, tea, or that rare, unassuming glass of water—we’ll never stop romanticizing the ritual. This poem owes its wings to the magic of my morning ritual—a cup of CCF. Coriander for clarity, cumin for warmth, fennel for sweetness. A tiny constellation of spices stir my soul awake.