by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on October 23, 2025
Poetry
The first sip,
I drink in solace.
Piping hot,
sweet cream, coats my throat.
The mug burns,
there’s a slight bitterness.
It’s only real,
it’s only fresh, plain, how it’s supposed to be.
To wake up to the warmth,
every season passes like winded clouds,
across the sky,
I clutch my cup, stare out the window with wonder.
The liquid feels like music,
thrumming through my veins,
replenishing my spirit,
it sends signals to my tasks.
Every day, on repeat.
The spoon swirls,
the color softens.
All through this winter, my bones will have blankets.