· poetry

The steam from my coffee rises, blowing to the left

the draft from the door opening in the wind

lifts it up like lips blowing smoke sideways.

The trees outside dance behind the dirty glass pane

they play, tossing needles to the north

bending branches to the east;

the rain pelts down.

An elderly woman puts on her hat, all black

her rain shells drenched and dark

her patchwork hands push gently on the door.

I want to drink my coffee slowly, walk

the streets slowly, spend

my life moving more slowly;

teach me to pause, absorb, overflow.

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