Each book on my shelf is a cup of coffee
brewed by artisans, packaged and delivered.
Inside, black stain on white porcelain
blooming with each sip.
The earthy aroma transports me
between Capricorn and Cancer,
but like all man its origin is Africa,
home to displaced cherries.
Liquid swirls and slurps abound
because the first sip is too hot, but necessary.
Enticed I am, and eager to acclimate
to the flavor of a great story.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA collection of poems about family, growing up, hiking through national parks, and cats.
