in the morningswith cups of mist
steaming fresh brew
we watch
the quiet falling of snow
preen pine
bend bough
and crown the fence
we talk
not of trivial things
nor of things to be
but of the hare
the flower
that ruby dabble
twining the birdbath
like a king's robe
there are no sighs
nor cruel words
or looks askance
of integrity
just coffee
warm
and conversation
weaving
gently
the syllables
of the day
11 comments:
Beauty knows no bounds upon these pages, like no other upon these pages. So many tears shed, so many heartbeats skipped, so many moments of complete peace having found purest inspiration. Art of this quality moves the heart and transforms the world, the ripples unending. This poem is as absolute and natural, as clear, as tranquil and as restorative as the snowflakes resting upon the branches of the image that accompanies. In this post is life.
You shine so bright.
Thanks Autumn. You've been missed. This poem is both light and shade. Light in that I needed something a little more uplifting than the current travails of Mary. Shade in that this is a wished for experience, not a reality. Sending thoughts and prayers.
This sounds like my idea of the perfect way to begin a day, slowly sipping in the drink of life.
Me too Cat. I'm a night owl and my mornings move like a slow lazy river. :-)
Hey, Tree ~ that beautiful offering was delivered up for my birthday yesterday. Thank you! What a gift.
Happy belated Birthday Limes! Hope you had the time of your life. {clink}
Oh, yeah! His version is already posted. Mine is to come. It was ONE memorable weekend! I am learning so much about myself and about him. Every day, something new.
The thought of that first cup of coffee, shared, with conversation. And then, knowing that it will never be. That fresh coffee. That meaningful, yet meaningless conversation. The wishing, wanting of what could've been, what should've been. A dreamed of future. A future out of reach, but not out of thought.
This post is utterly delightful. It's simple yet elegant, alluring, charming.
Thank you Lady of the Lake. When reality sucks, one can always dream. They can't take that away from me. :-D
You leave me without proper words to leave with you, so very often. You go soft in your writing and I want to caress your cheek, hard and I want to drive you harder, hurting and I want to absorb it, as mine.
This is one of your most perfect, most beautiful pieces of writing, and you've many of them. I'd meet you in the morning for coffee, any time.
S. your words are as fingers in my mind, combing the day from me, weaving the night to come. I'd have that coffee, black, in an off-white cup, with a slight lip, any day. :-)
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