I’d like to believe
our coffee grinder plays a
symphony of love
to me; and may I digress
Not me alone unless
my hearing’s impaired
by a raptor of thoughts;
there's this Lady
Who makes that
aromatic brew with majestic
finesse - delivers the cup
to my writing desk -
Gently pats my outstretched
hand - departs to feel
togetherness with that
embraced in her own
Were we less compatibly
innate the music would groan
and flee its symphonic ceremony -
thus leaving memories
No coffee
in the Universe
could foresee
or forsake…
© 8 February 2018, I. D. Carswell
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