Her young, soft hands
Clutch the cup of coffee,
Starbucks’ morning brew,
As she sits,
Nestled in flannel plaid pajamas
With a fleece blanket
Hugging her body.
She sips her beverage,
The delightful aroma
Entering her inner essence.
The warmth penetrates
Her lungs, to her heart,
Reminding her:
Her dear late grandma
Held her mug of tea
In the same manner,
Only the crooked, aged hands
Had known years of labor
At the kitchen counter
Or the sewing machine.
The same feeling lives
In both hearts.
Snow falls, relentless.
Her gaze turns to the window,
Finding peace in silence,
When it seems
The whole world stops,
Rests under a white blanket.
She pulls her blanket closer.
The fire crackles.
The clock ticks.
The hours pass on,
As do the years,
But some things remain unchanged
In an ever-changing world–
The familiar things.
11/22/02
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