My fleeting affair of the heart with Press Coffee
Calling, in a sing-song tone, with an alluring and familiar parfum:
the coffee beans are roasting.
Others, the non-aficionados, cannot appreciate the tartness,
like the tannins in brown leaves; the charred bits of burnt toast.
In the morning, it demands. In the afternoon, it beckons.
Some days I have strength; mostly I succumb.
Steam coils from the biodegradable cup; tendrils of scented vapor corkscrewing upwards.
Unassuming and slightly offensive umber liquid awaits the empyrean cream.
Unskilled hands let the cream fall to the bottom of the cup
resulting in a homogeneous disaster; an unrealized mass.
Finesse and a steady hand is equipment enough
to create delicate and delectable depictions of
a growing palm frond
a budding plant with a delicate flower
a heart enshrouded by its own radiating aura.