Coffee


This morning we walked down the street; I'm grateful it was you
who smelled the fresh-cut grass with me and felt the warming sun
and watched the cherry petals dash and dip and flutter past.
I'm grateful to be here to see your smile and touch your hand
and muse that boulders look like holes in foothills' springtime clothes.
You smile and talk of buying spinach and tomatoes, and 
we sip French roast, and I drink in your coffee-colored eyes
as sunlight spins gold strands amid your dark milk chocolate hair.

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