grits

Beautiful bowl of grits,
steamy southern comfort -  
you make the mornings.  
I could never get tired of you.  
 
I feel like the god in your creation story  
when I cut off the stove,  
spooning down fluffy gold  
folds of you  
into a big ol' bowl.  
 
You're perfect,  
so much so  
you beg to be consumed.  
Slowly.  
 
I give you  
one last drop  
of tabasco  
 
and a moment, a scent  
cuts in -  
fog on my glasses.  
I breathe breakfast,  
and investigate -  
tip-toe to the window  
to check out the sky today.  
 
It is simmering.  
 
Sun scrapes the horizon like a saucepan; there's  
gold ribbons falling down on  
cold, still street  
And Louisiana steam  
rising, as it  
forever does.  
 
Today is tasty.  
Warm.
And the bowl is big.  
 
So we're one  
mite of flavor  
in a teeny tiny drop in it -  
 
such little grains of salt  
riding on a spoonful of time,  
we don't notice  
it's a bite -  
bliss made to end.  
 
So  
what?  
 
I'm tasting something  
fantastic.