She was comfort. A sugar cinnamon woman, a taste lingering on his tongue, a reminder of the past. He closed his eyes and saw a kitchen, a woman, and sweet rolls in autumn.

Only

“Tell me,

What do you want?”

Shall I give you eyes to see?

Gentle moments that follow one another like pearls slipping off string.

The essence of crushed rose after dusty rain

Dusty oils

Honey served on a silver spoon?

Only rubbed back essentials, darling

Only your patina soul.

~Anna

It takes patience to procure the perfect cup of coffee beginning with the French beans to the water’s roll. Next, is the slow pour over and finally, the decisive press.

Take pleasure in the art. It’ s a ritual allowing time to be.

Rain hits the pavement. Leaves dance in the wind. Somewhere, in the distance, a door slams. A wind chime rustles. A baby cries.

I am still. Peace waits within sips of strong coffee.

The first taste is always too hot. The last, too cold. There is a moment between these two extremes, the sacred space of seeded memories, whispered prayers, the spot where lovers meet.

You say, “Come to me.”

We are in Paris. You take my hand and lead me to shelter, far from the storm.

The Art of Coffee In The Rain

draft

He bought her birds and not just any type: Quail, wicker, and one from Spain.

I placed them on top a dresser in her room.

She cried.