Each morning, with the light still low,
I fill the kettle, watch it glow;
The same small task, the same old cup—
But who is it that’s waking up?
My hand knows where the teaspoons lie;
I hardly look as I pass by.
How much of life goes by that way—
My body here, my mind away?
Away with work I’ve yet to do,
With yesterday’s unfinished queue;
While here, beneath my very nose,
The fragrance of the coffee grows.
Today I pause. The waters sing.
Must I accomplish anything?
Can I stand here, with nothing earned,
And hear what haste has never learned?
I watch the little spirals rise
And disappear before my eyes.
I cannot keep them. Still, I stay—
Must beauty last to bless my day?
The cup is chipped beside the rim;
I turn it, fill it to the brim.
How many mornings has it known,
Held in these hands as I have grown?
And in this sip, the rain is there,
The soil, the sun, another’s care;
Some hands I’ll never meet have grown
The beans I thoughtlessly call my own.
I’ve lit my lamp and bowed my head,
Repeated words my teachers said;
Now, lifting coffee, warm and sweet,
I feel the same earth at my feet.
Would God be waiting only where
I’ve made a proper place for prayer?
Or have I hurried past Him here,
Then wondered why He felt less near?
The phone lights up. I let it be;
For once, the world can wait for me.
I take one sip, then breathe, then two—
How strange, the things I hurry through.
There’s still a counter I must wipe,
A stubborn stain, a leaking pipe;
I wet the cloth and wipe it clean,
And watch the wood emerge between.
Tomorrow, I may rush once more,
And leave my cup beside the door.
But now I know how little space
It takes to meet the world with grace.
I rinse the cup. Warm waters run.
The morning’s scarcely yet begun.
And in this pause, so small, so slight,
The God within me comes to light.
–Mani