This little coffee captivates me.
It is simplicity;
Its joy and energy
contained in scant few milliliters
That I have only just begin
to understand.
The art
is in drinking it slow.

Winter is settling in,
a discontent
seeping into bones
and attitudes made light
only by the twinkling gaity
of Christmastide
that roars in
refusing to be ignored.

Seasons change
and I change with them.
Who am I becoming?
Where will I end?

I sit here in fall
watching yellow leaves -
their brothers still tinged with green -
piroette to earth.
Pigeons coo
and peacocks strut by -
the geese do their thing I'm sure
but I avoid those paths and ponds.
I had never seen a duck dive
til I came here
and one plunged after a sinking scrap.

Children babble in the distance
and I think of the young man
more captivated by tiny humans than I -
how his face lights up with wonder -

Sunlight flits through leaves into my eyes
and I reflexively brush at my face
the way he's brushed my hair from his eyes-
All this beauty, but I just want his face.

Church steeples jut unto the sky,
mimiced elsewhere by tall apartment buildings like my own.
They are old reminders of pious times
when only churches and city halls scraped the sky.

I have a balcony on the twelfth floor
and from here I will watch the city change.
The trees and gardens
are already starting to yellow,
to adorn themselves with autumn.
I will watch the leaves fall
and snow briefly grace rooftops.
Then spring will come,
and color will come roaring back.

Spring will come
and I will leave.

I can see the cemetary from my balcony.
They have always fascinated me,
always tugged at me.
There is history there,
etched on every stone
is a stroy snuffed out
leaving only the burnt wick.