fragrant cups of tea
 
with scones fresh from the oven—
 
winter morning treats

 
 
 

The tea in my cup
 
is turning cold too quickly—
 
first frost on the grass.

 
 
 

In my coffee cup
 
a spider weaves a new web—
 
autumn’s first surprise.

 
 
 

In my stained white cup
 
the last few drops of coffee
 
have turned cold as stone.

 
 
 

First chill of autumn—
 
coffee from my father’s cup
 
warms me to the bone.

 
 
 

Midmorning coffee—
 
I sip from an old stained cup
 
that was my father’s.

 
 
 

How many autumns
 
will God pour into my cup
 
after this one’s drained?