Tender moments, never insignificant, fill her days and nights like fireflies floating in the light of the rusted lantern that lives above the cottage, its facade now cloaked in the ornaments of autumn.
She glides delicately toward the door—allowing her long, slender legs to spread out before her in preparation for the journey to her most precious escape—the cafe on Adelaide Avenue.
Just prior to exiting her cottage door—in a moment of fervor—she plucks a scarlet scarf from the shelf and cocoons herself within its comforting warmth.
Down the stone-covered path patterned with golden leaves, she trods briskly, ardently.
The wooden door of the cafe lets out a sleepy groan as the frosty air fills its bones.
She shares a shy, yet meaningful exchange with the barista.
“A tall latte—sprinkle just a bit of cinnamon on top, would you?”
The man behind the counter—his beard painted with specks of grey and auburn—gazes up—and she can barely make out that his lips have now curved into a gentle smile.
She watches with admiration as the warm caramel-colored liquid spills gently into the mug and notices the precision with which he picks up the glass jar, how his hands tip it ever so gently to allow the cinnamon to fall delicately upon the warm liquid, almost as if to say to her,
“I did this especially for you.”
The aroma in the mug, well worn from years of use, flows up and into the walls of the cafe, its tiles patterned with delicate florals.
Some are chipped and a bit stained around their edges—signs that memories were made in this place.
An escape, if you will, where friends have hunkered in close and chatted.
And forbidden lovers stole kisses under flickering lights—embracing moments they hoped would last a lifetime.
She positions herself in the green booth, the one with the tattered cushions, and relishes the thought of those who have come before her.
Their smiles and laughter seem etched into the walls—memories not to be forgotten,
for these are the golden times.
These are the moments that matter—that shape our souls and teach our spirits how to soar.
“Your latte—-?”
“Ah, yes,” says the woman in the scarlet scarf, as she shifts her eyes away from the tiles and onto the bearded barista—their eyes meeting once more.
This time, with intention, she reciprocates his tender smile.
She breathes in the intoxicating aroma of the latte, dotted with cinnamon, and for a brief moment, she pauses, deeply exhales and commits this simple, yet magical moment to memory.
Spoken for…
I am the property
of the November wind
Arctic ice
the cooling creek
a moonlit mountainside
a fireside chat
in all of that,
I am made whole
the waters rush in to
invigorate my soul
the cascading hills
roll the tension out
beams of golden sun
bake in the joy
i am spoken for….
Skin left bitten by the boisterous, blustery day
her pretty cheeks pricked and left delicately raw,
the phantom wind left crimson upon her cheeks and lips
warmth crept in, set in
upon entering the sanctuary of her favorite spot
swirling the long robe up and out into the expanse of space within
she placed herself inside its embrace
slipped down into the hug of her most beloved chair
curled up, like a spotted cat, and wrote
with pen pressed to her petal-covered pout,
she lost herself in the tease of his smile
how long she had yearned to touch her lips to his
the waiting, the wonder, and now
only writing, only lines on the page
through the ink dotted on each piece,
she could put herself there with him
Spoken for…
Love Letters to August 