For a moment, I am home

In the quiet of the morning, before the sun  

spills over rooftops and drips through leaves,  

on Besant Nagar’s sleepy streets,  

dawn breaks to the pulse of Suprabhatham

It begins in stillness, as boiling water

spills gently over coffee grounds,  

a fragrance rises, familiar,

rich and deep.

Appa tips the milk into the waiting tumbler,  

where it meets decoction, 

warm, bittersweet, layered,

frothing to the brim

Steam curls around my fingers, feathered, light,  

and I sip, tasting roots and reverie.  

In this cup, there is something more than morning,  

so much more than milk and sugar; it is quiet grace,

comfort brewed from patience.

Here, though, in Boston, worlds and worlds away,

mornings break cold, unadorned,  

yet somewhere in this cup, this warmth,  

for a moment, I am home,

in Besant Nagar, where winter is a stranger 

and the air is sweet.