This poem came to me while drinking coffee from a French Press, since out coffee carafe on the regular coffeemaker is tragically broken. It seemed that I could not get to the coffee soon enough, what with life’s many distractions, to sip it, before it turned cold.
Like most common wisdom, the concept of seizing the day is a magnet for tired idioms. Hope you will overlook the resulting lack of originality. Thanks for coming by to read!
The brew, it cools too quickly.
Too quickly, it grows cold.
The coffee in the kettle.
The bloodstream, in the old.
We’re born and live, unthinking.
We waste our precious hours.
While we should all be drinking,
We let the milk go sour.
When active, we are happy.
When still, we mimic Death.
So grow where you are planted
And cherish every breath,
And stop and smell the roses,
And smooth your furrowed brow,
For all of this will vanish.
The brew is cooling now.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For a poem about how the recriminations of the past can echo through the years, read Air Mail, 1977.
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