Your hand
on a mug
of morning tea
brewed to be
as strong as coffee.

Pins and needles
up your arm.

You want to speak
of aging, of decay,
of survival
against decay, or even 
of late growth?  
Start here

with the importance
of the tea,
the jolt you sought
upon waking.  
Continue with how
the pains
in your arm
don’t alarm you
this morning,
how the pain
in your face
is at last invisible.

You don’t even know
why you get up
in the morning 
most days,
but you always do,
and you always
drink something
to start the day:
a mug of strong tea.

A strong cup of tea,
two bags, minimal milk,
a touch of sweetener.
The bitter edge
from nearly oversteeping it,
the tiny triumph
of knowing how close
you came,
the first sip that confirms
you can live with it.

You can live with it.
You have and you will.
The only way to live:
touch something,
feel something, trust 
the weight of it
in your hand, and
don’t speak of it
or its lessons
too soon.