My Coffee

I believe in having one cup of coffee a day. At least. Where you get it from, however is up to your own creative whims…

On the twenty-first of November two-thousand thirteen coffee came right out of the sky for me. A soft, light, floating, coffee. It was fresh, it was clean and it didn’t make my breath stink. But it sure made me flutter and jitter with joy.  It was an awakening glow to the stiff grays of a yawning winter day still ridding itself of night’s imposition. It transformed my environnement quotiden into a snow globe world for the first time I could remember in my twenty-three and half revolutions around the sun. It was a pale, almost transparent delight, still a little embarrassed by its own dimension, but no less pure, and no less exuberant. The break of day for my contentment. It was new again. And it will be new tomorrow too. New that is new again and again. It will always be new, it will never lose its charm. There will only ever be “first snows” for me.

And oh that sunrise silence! If silence were tangible, it would be snow. No doubt. Though a sleepy season it may be, winter can’t possibly be about death – it must be about imagination. About wandering in the waning shadows, about tracing in the drifts, about believing sunrise might actually meet his tardier counterpart, about cold’s nipping presence forcing you to seek warmth where you forgot it sourced, about standing frigid in a field alone, holding your breath with the gelid universe and asking the constellations why.

I know that it is in this sort of crisp landscape, keenly frozen, when snow makes its delicate entrance, where many years later my youth will still keep. It cannot melt from my mind. It hangs in halls of enchanted stalactites. Its magic is too piercing, too precise, too profound to pass up. I mean, crystals falling from the sky, crystals?! Have you ever stopped to consider that? Consider it now. Isn’t that what fairytales are made of? It can be snow globe world, I’m sure it can.  I have to believe it can. There’s no fall from grace here, only grace.

After all, snow doesn’t fall, it floats. And so do the autumn leaves and the spring petals and the downy feathers of nesting birds. And then in summer you begin float, on oceans and lakes and rivers and up to summer heights and drying meadows and dreamy picnics. And so we can go, gliding smoothly from one season to the next, finding novelty as it comes again and again.

Won’t you come along? It’s twice the fun to mirror our delights…


What was your coffee today? Or another day? What kind of things always stay new for you?

Published by Johanne Boulat

Johanne Boulat was born in French-speaking Switzerland, where she lives again now, but she grew up under the resplendent California sun. For 21 years she basked in the spirit of the Wilderness, which she discovered on hiking as well as literary paths. She received her Bachelor of Science in Animal Biology from the University of California, Davis in 2012 and since then has worked as a scientific field aid, a translator, a sales specialist, and a running coach. In 2018, she completed her master’s degree in English Literature at the University of Lausanne in Switzerland. She now teaches English and Science at a local elementary school and dedicates her free time to the three “R”s: Running, Reading, and Writing.

6 thoughts on “My Coffee

  1. Tu écris tellement bien que j’ai parfois du mal à tout saisir. Mais l’on voit bien que tout cela est empli de poésie.
    Plein de bisous

  2. En m’éveillant je contemple – et c’est ma prière- la nature qui s’enflamme au soleil levant. “une plaintive petite cadence s’est mêlée à toute la grande musique du monde” et je fais mienne la poésie de Johanne, ma petite fille qui exprime bien mieux que je ne puis le faire l’émotion et la beauté du monde.
    en sus une tasse de café brûlante, quelle merveille !

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