She pours the beans in the most graceful way
Makes one think she has a way with the coffee beans.
There is triumph in the way she stirs.
The clinking of her spoon to the glass is music
Therapeutic to my feeble core.
No one does it better, I know.
The aroma, lacking her, is unappealing.
The sugar is unsweet if her hands not serving it.
That coffee in a bucks claiming to be a star
Is nothing to my world.
The warmth of mother's coffee is like her hands touching my soul
Yearning for a sip or a brew or a talk.
And the taste she knows not what my tongue desires
But by my heart in its brimming gratitude.