While Most Drink Coffee

To rev their engine and open their lids,

I have my own way of waking.

A ritual below consciousness

that caffeinates me.

Frozen berries blue, black and rasp

of a measureless number,

known only to my quick eyes,

half awake, dropped into a bowl followed by

just the optimal sprinkle of Bran Buds

and Catalina Crunch

(This is no laughing matter)

wet by a precise, random splash of almond milk.

Then comes the casual exactitude

of the spoonful, with a nod of approval

from my congenitally wise tongue,

sufficient to open my taste buds,

my hemispheres, my voltage

to set an equipoise to meet the day.  

An un-berried portion would be an insult

to my entire palate, would tilt my planet,

crumble my architecture, already teetering

and I might never know why.

This is the way it goes, unrehearsed, 

in the dailiness of a plan that is no plan,

a knowledge beyond knowing,

making my way in the juice and crunch

of existence with berries and grains 

in this enormous bowl.