Brewing a Tempest

They call others’ passions a “storm in a cup,”

Or “making a mountain out of a hill”—

Now a cliché—

Less valued, often dismissed.

Yet my cup of coffee brews daily,

Pressed and poured,

One cup at a time,

I sip it, stirring thoughts–

Here and there,

Sometimes nowhere,

Yet always somewhere.

In a storm, nothing is visible;

I unload my burdens–

Memories, scattered words, quiet debris.

What lands in my chipped mug

Is barely recognizable—

One sip at a time,

The storm grows,

A tempest, unrelenting.