The Cup


The coffee is held in trembling hands,
Wrapped around the cup.
Swirls of steam rise up,
Beckoning with their dance.
Twisting and writhing, they rise,
Flowing about themselves,
Forming vortices and eyes,
They bring enchanting smells.
Wafting, they wrap without touching,
The face, now so cold.
The swirls bring memories aching,
Of times not so old.
Still they dance and beckon,
Reminding of better times,
It seems only yesterday,
When the face hadn’t these lines.
The last of the coffee is drunk,
The shivering now is past,
Inward, its warmth has sunk,
But how long will it last?

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