Milk

Milk

On a cool spring morning I wait for the milkman’s wheel,
Gleaming in his coat, a brass‑brushed, silver seal.
The churn of the old Milker’s splash in the curtained bake,
Kindred hums of the brown cow in the pen, “Mama’s awake.”

The cup ascends, a golden stream from a glassy vat,
From the teat‑whisk of the herd, every drop contracts.
It pours in a brew that could be both pale and huge,
A white tide that summons warmth inside the lub.

Fresh chill in the fridge, a white crisp in a bag,
White as a summer diploma, a thin brow of a gag.
It swirls in a coffee, a cappuccino, a dream,
The dairy’s lullaby that to woke eyes gleam.

I embrace the creamy drizzle of a quiet town,
The milk mounts in a bottle, silent and unhinged in a crown.
The merchant of morning, a relic of the sky,
The quaint loyalty of a pod that can’t be denied.