Friday, May 27, 2011

The Beautiful Things

The first too-hot sip of coffee, lightened with cream, flashing across your teeth and tongue, heating your throat all the way down to your stomach.

The bright, clean snap of a green bean just picked off the vine, smelling of earth and life and sunshine.

The color of light passing through a glass of red wine, flashing on the table and piano.

The rain as it drives into the stone of the patio and falls from the eaves-- a harsh wave of indistinct sound broken by loud intermittent splashes.

The way the hearth fire glows, breathing orange and red and black, with a subdued crackling and a sudden snap, sending sparks eddying through the air.

The way your body sinks into the mattress at the end of a long day, your muscles aching, oozing into a puddle, your bones separating slightly, falling deeper into your body as you exhale.

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