My ankles are chilly as it’s cold in this room
I should do my chores but I can’t find my broom
There’s dust on each surface and grit on the floor
Just a small path uniting me with the door

There’s only one clump of coal in my basket
To keep this place warm and fit to inhabit
I’ve run out of milk there’s a hole in my pocket
No tea in the pantry the fever is starting

The shuddering of windows as the wind says hello
I can hear all my children skip and play down below
Their laughter’s a smile to my worn tender face
Last evening they picked me some primrose and lace

We had us some porridge and bread with some milk
Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk
The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street
We may not have much but we have us a family
A blessing together our happy retreat
The cold of winter can’t chop down this tree

​We had us some porridge and bread with some milk
Our tummies wrapped gently in velvety silk
The raisins a treat from the bakery on Main Street
We may not have much but we have us a family
A blessing together our happy retreat
The cold of winter won’t chop down this tree
The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree
The cold of the winter won’t chop down this tree

Brian Theoret
​12/14/24

I have stories to learn and lessons to earn in the confines of my mind.
I’ll take the line and sort out the moss on the rotted logs as I jump across rivers flowing rapid down the white water canyons of time.
I’ll write the hymns humming in caverns like bearfoot whispers dancing in the moonlight.
​I’ll sing it out loud until my voice turns gritty, harmonies sung through the branches of a barren tree yearning for cover under moonlit eyes.

Weight of the world on my shoulders
Cliche as it may sound
I'm feeling the brunt of these boulders
As they push me into the ground
Their gritty kind of exterior
Made of dirt and petrified wood
Grinds deeply into my skin
Hardly stand up with all I could
Where are my support beams
Gleaming in the sun
Leaning against a road sign
Full of holes from a gun
A painted secant on the avenue
Telling us not to go
As the tumble weeds gather
And wander to and fro
A wasteland full of nothing
Void of thought and wonderment
Is it a dream or a nightmare
That haunts with detriment
Awake with a sweatiness
Burning in your pillow
Your breath can finally slow
​After this fallowed night time sentiment

One of my favorite parts of the morning is my morning coffee ritual.

I start off with freshly roasted beans from Vermont Coffee Company, specifically their Dark Roast. Their Dark Roast has always been a favorite of mine as it offers a rich, roasted, dark, almost burnt chocolatey intensity but it has a pleasant aroma and taste that isn't harsh as sometimes can be typical with some of the other dark roast coffees I have tried.

When I first open the air tight canister of beans, it's magical. You know they are fresh when they have a nice sheen on them. This is a greasy bean house. You know it's good when they're greasy. After that initial silent moment just after opening the canister, I have a quick reflection on what's about to happen. I gently pour the beans, offering themselves up to me when it's their time, into my coffee grinder. If my wife happens to be around when I'm doing this I shout out a nonchalant "Noise!" and hit the button. Suddenly the beans are dancing with each other, becoming a finer version of their former self.

After the joyous chaos of bean grinding is complete I fill the kettle with water and get my French press ready for our little morning party. Up to the mark and it's time to heat up the bath.

Amidst the heating of the water, it's time to measure out the heaping scoops. With my measuring spoon, I dive into the freshly ground goodness, filling my French press with just enough of the black gold dust.

Thirty-two ounces of water and six heaping spoonfuls is all it takes.  No more.  No less.  Perfection...

​Just coming off its boil, the water is ready to be poured, but I must wait. Thirty seconds to be exact. Slowly, in small circles I gently pour the hot water over the ground coffee beans, letting them breath as I go. Little bubbles come to the surface as I pour the scalding water, making sure to envelope every last bit of coffee in a warm embrace, up to the fill mark on my press. It's therapeutic watching something like this. The beans are going from solid form to liquid form. It's a satisfying feeling, taking a solid little bean and transforming it into something that gives off pure joy in the form of warmth, comfort and energy.

With a stir and the setting of a timer, I wait...

​I get slight hints of burnt chocolate and raspberry in the air while I wait for my coffee to brew, pondering what I'm going to accomplish today. I gather my mug and half 'n half awaiting the moment where I can push the plunger down into the dark abyss, separating liquid from solid, completing the metamorphosis from one thing to another. Bean to brew. Cold to warm. Asleep to awake. Half to whole. From apart to together again. The cycle continues...

...and then I pour my first mug.