the burnt honey brightly trickles,
drops of fragrant translucent liquid
plummet to the jugs below:
Columbian, chocolate macaroon, crème brûlée
aromas fill the darkened hall,
nasal cavities resound with waking sense
(and now we wait, stuffing the trays
like horizontal Christmas stockings)
I am alone for these first shaded moments
crouching in the darkness, thinking;
behind the metal lattice things prepare themselves,
waiting until the moment they shine
it is almost therapeutic,
these exotic beans -
tickling the senses,
emboldening the eyes
Saturday, July 9, 2011
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson