The mystery in a hackneyed ballad
unfailingly eludes me.
Without my own perspective
love tastes as bitter as my coffee.
His kisses are the sugar,
his script is the cream;
In my years the desperation
is the mug, so it seems.
Vaporous heat thaws the winter on her hands
and brings her comfort from the cold.
Following frozen days are filled with coffee,
just like others who fit the mould.
As the green tide of grasses roll northward,
steaming sips become sparse.
Her lovely lipstick only kisses the cup
whose caffeine has become her force.
With the sun at zenith and the early light,
there are more to her mornings than coffee.
Wanderlust will take her to Rome, to Paris,
Daybreak celebrated with tea and biscotti.
Among her travel the leaves have flamed,
now the earth grows crucially older.
One morning she'll wake to a chill,
and ache for coffee when days get colder.