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Coffee Shop Tales

An autumn afternoon writing coffee shop tales,

an attempt to craft words but my mind fails;

one look at my love the barista and all thoughts leave,

she wears my old shirt with Sweden on the sleeve.

No nutmeg or cinnamon or pumpkin spice

can equal the sweet flavor of her lips,

the warmth of her tongue will always more than suffice,

and always my heart skips a beat —

Fast-forward to the first summer we've been married,

the night before the fears of the future we've carried

to God with tears and with weeping,

becoming evermore strong in the faith of His keeping.

You're becoming more than you ever knew,

though not how you thought it'd be,

but even better —

and I'm so proud of you.

Second to last day of work in the little coffee shop

where made we so many little memories while growing in love,

I'll exchange that sweet look with my wife the barista

over a London Fog made with Russian black tea,

that look with my eyes that she loves,

one last time in the coffee shop for her to see —

just one more time, and so soon from now,

my honey, from here you're free.

So chapters close while chapters unfold,

and no matter how they're written,

with you I'll grow old.

We'll think back to our early years,

back to our coffee shop tales,

when we were dreaming and praying,

back when we learned to fight our fears.