~ : random thoughts discovered under empty coffee cups.
Sunlight fading fast; shifting from a southern exposure, wrapping westward, glinting a magenta banner of mixed gold through a dust layered glass. A northern wall catching the crooked outline of boxed panes framing a tree’s naked shadow.
Silence creaks along, rivaled only by a slow tick of a windup clock; perhaps the travel one, relied upon to wake the dead even when a winter wind breaks electrical circuitry. Where is it buried; in what drawer does it hide today, begging to be wound again before it fades away.
Dust gathers in select corners. The other corners contain stacks of New Yorkers, Poetry Magazine, and random issues of torn bits from Harpers, Mother Jones and Dwell.
The smell of just roasted, then pressed, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe Koke Coop beans perfume the empty echoes with heady earth gone slightly burnt. A lone ribbon of steam swirls, catching the tail of a draft that plagues this century old structure.
Marsalis’s horn helps the twilight to settle into the rafters bones. Midnight is far away, yet its promise settles in the moon that’s rising slowly between spires of evergreen.
This is perhaps how things would play if this were my cafe after closing time. Marsalis is playing; the Ethiopian bean is so strong if permeates the air permanently; and the dust does gather in certain corners.
Today, as I made coffee for the patrons, I thought about my desire to have a shop; to be a barista. Certainly not high aspirations, but I’d sprinkle in my writing, reading and other things to make it beyond palatable. It would be fun to have a paper, an electronic offering for my guests of the latest blurbs worth chatting. I toyed with names while watching the amber liquid drip. Many I know have been/ or are being used; so I settled on one I’d never seen “pour-over & pressed”. Here is what you’d see today if you’d stopped ’round…
We may adore our eReaders, though, Franzen** believes the book shall never be banished; good for him; that thinking is called job security if working my scene. Not really, but if we didn’t have books, what would we do with these beautiful institutions of book selling?
A while back, I wrote about the lost art of letters. This author is offering a “Month of Letters Challenge” to help encourage and revive the letter. I know me, my lazy tendencies with the post; HOWEVER, if you’d like to receive something in the post (I’ve a penchant for postcards from the local art centre), drop me a note, and I will (promise) send you one. Perhaps I’ll be inspired enough to write a short poem.
Speaking of: (a poem, on death, on february, on life; a thought) ***
february whispers in, she’s all winter wind and dead branched shadows
scratching at the broken door, its splinters gone grey in rain fallen
storms; my palm catches a wooden dagger, it sinks deep into fresh flesh
past battered layers from the elements and today’s filled pail of harsh
chemicals and heat.
february means death to me, earth barren and cracked brown; animals struggle under mother’s icy blasts. i remember how hard it must have been to dig under that frozen earth, wondering if traditional burials shouldn’t be saved for temps higher than 50 degrees; selfishly concerned about catching death while wiping away crystals dripping down my ashen face.
eighth, twelfth; thirteenth, sixteenth? sad, I don’t remember that next year, when nonno finally disappeared; all I could think was, just one year and death, dear dark death arrived again; february, she speaks no love to me,
the only roses i’d seen were the ones I kept as keepsakes from the graves ~
**I agree with Franzen and eReaders perhaps dumbing us down. I will not read His books, however, after his caving to Oprah the second go round. (I very much dislike Oprah)
***wrote this to a terribly somber song via spotify. ironically, the song is called “Laid In Earth” by Ane Brun.