Loves he the soul, the unexpressed
also the press with grounds and water boiled
hot, steeping for minutes one, two, three,
also the cup with sweet milk filled.
Loves he each sip, in the right
place, with the right melody on,
which does the job up nice, in the right
company, with everything right.
Loves he the way that there are things
which words fail to say and music
has to step in and touch the places
inside of us untouchable
except by cosmic fingertips.