Wintery days

I am from coffee beans,  

from bitter brews and cracked porcelain mugs.  

I am from the steamed soy eggs,  

the scent that clings to mornings  

like an old, Chinese dwelling.

In Amherst's shade, where whispers grow,  
You stitched the seams of all we know,  
A bee's soft hum, a slant of light,  
Became the fabric of your night.  

I am grateful for the rising sun,  
For every day that’s just begun.  
The golden light that warms my face,  
And time that moves at its steady pace.