Coffee with My Love
Simple moment, profound conversation
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
— T. S. Eliot (1888–1965), excerpt from Little Gidding, V, in his Four Quartets
In the coziness of the porch,
the heart of our home,
you poured two cups of coffee
black as a moonless night.
“I feel it,” you said,
“like a stone in my shoe,
this thing between us,
can’t seem to shake it loose.”
Your words, soft-spoken,
broke the silence
like the crack of dawn
splits the dark.
I leaned in,
saw my reflection in your eyes —
deep pools of worry and wonder,
and whispered back,
“Love ain’t easy,
it’s a garden of stubborn weeds,
but it’s ours to tend,
to toil and grow.”
You smiled,
reached across the table,
your hand brushing mine —
a touch, light as a petal,
yet heavy enough to hold me.
