The smell of coffee, sunshine on wood and the luxury of time.
All loveliness.
And then, under the middle cup, a brown piece of torn packing paper with pretty words on it.
I couldn't stay, so I will imagine it refolded, in a stranger's pocket, along with some lint and change, and a thumb and index finger that press against the folds, enjoying the oddity of the little discovery.
3 comments:
YOU are poetry, my friend.
Awww...thanks Shannon. Hey, drop poetry with me. It's so much fun.
Have you dropped any more? I'll give it a shot!
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