My winter window frames, ironically, these same hues.
The naked brown elms huddle, shocked and knock-need,
Like panicked birthday candles,
Dying just to light, and pry their feet from the ice.
Inside, though, these beans seem warmer for the white,
Snuggled plump and cocoa-shiny in my mug,
Waiting like a lump of coal to burn this furnace bright.
I can almost smell their smug potential.
Yet I could no more swallow inspiration
From a day like this
Than I can these beans
Unless I lace up my boots
And grind a walk through it;
I suspect the view from inside
Does no justice to it.
Pretty picture, though, and worth a sigh:
I know the best taste of this coffee
Requires I swallow my frigid pride
Then, later, stagger back inside and brew it.
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