soft footsteps at the edge of the forest,
afraid to tread into the thickets of oak and pine trees
standing guard, wondering why there are no more voices
conversing down into their roots,
the quick knowledge of their branches,
find purchase in an enchanted land made more magical than it really is
i trapped a little thought in my head,
and i kept it captive for longer than would be considered reasonable,
not sharing it with the rest of the class,
because they don’t deserve this little thought in my head,
though i’m fairly certain neither do i,
but i’ll call the thought steve,
and we’ll be best friends,
just don’t ask where i put that thought in my head,
since everything up there keeps getting lost, broken, and bruised
loud slurping noises coming from a brightly illuminated room,
where cups of black elixir sit on a rotating table,
waiting to be sampled, waiting to be judged by coffee professionals
that have tasted them countless times before,
but here the moment is again!
to cup; to score; to grow, once more
Fred Aiken Writing 