She sits, legs crossed,
and hair down.
One hand encircles the warmth
of an earthen vessel.
The other wraps a tress
of coffee-brown locks around her finger.
The scent of raspberry lingers
in the air as steam rises from the teacup.
It's a morning ritual she'll never give up.
YOU ARE READING
Every Last Drop
Poetryfor hard times. for the lonely late nights. and the tears we cry. every last drop. * all rights reserved
