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Coffee is a language dark
That I will never learn:
The subtleties of roast and tint
I never can discern.

When told to buy a coffee drink,
I have to ask again
The flavor and the size and such
To fit my husband’s whim.

I really ought to know these things,
But none to me make sense:
Such details in this “foreign” drink
I cannot recall hence.

So, though I’ll try to smile and nod,
In truth, I’ve just been burned:
For coffee stays a bitter tongue
I know not how to learn.

by Gwennon
9:30 am May 1, 2013

This is one of a handful of poems that God allowed me to both start and finish this week. But I am also in the middle of three others, all lovely acrostic sonnets: including a poem for Mother’s Day, and a lovely thank-you poem for some friends. Sadly, however, I have made no progress on these. I hope to have some time to attack them on Saturday. Sigh.

Praying for God to give you peace and joy in your work today,

Gwennon

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