flat white

the hanging moon, the star’s tinsel light and
a pink streak cloud’s unbuttoning the dawn.

the world’s a hyperreal cup of shining beauty. i’m seizing the moment
by the bucketful. the ugly morning news switched off.
it’s 6 am on the motorway and everybody’s moving like liquid honey.

nouns and verbs lifting the lid on kindness and I’m watermelon thinking.
the fog pooling in the distance. it could be a metaphor for getting lost
but it’s just fog pooling in the distance. it’s you and me at home.
it’s me and my notebook writing love in the present tense.  

i misread the calendar and i’m an hour early in the waiting room
but this is beneath-the-light-of-the-world. making it through to somewhere.
asking the fog lake for directions to my imagination. a dream aquarium.
i am holding peace in my head. a recipe for paella. whiti and peata’s book.

it’s discovering Flour Mill café and ordering coffee and Nita’s beaming
as she froths oatmilk. her sublime latte carries me to Firenze before
i confess to wavelength road trips and for just one moment
i am spelling hope on the edge of this miracle beauty day.

Paula Green