Saturday is small and full

of bright hot life and love buns. I can’t taste the chocolate notes in coffee three, but Jesus turns the wet brown grounds to
liquid light and I

grow
thick roots, twisting

down deep into the busy ground. This season is one of
yellow weather and mounds of sounds we only taste when we are finished making little sighs of soft delight beneath the new white sheets
collecting summer sleet in cups to sip on while the bulldog sleeps
and snorts and snores and dreams of meeting bigger pets in frantic happy heat. This quiet will not last much longer and we waste it anyway
day will die and night will live and night will die and day will arrive again and I will be hungry, little dry mouth open wider

than a skyline, and the coffee will be ready.

Image: Photo by Matteo Grando, via Unsplash.