Reheat

I hate cold coffee!

Conceited Crusade

Trees whisper tales

on the tips of north winds.

Secrets stack upon the ground,

in broken, crackling, sounds.

What’s old is gone,

and gone to stay,

the verse repeats

on borrowed time,

and I reheat my coffee

I’d left untouched

before your call.

The day comes back to life.

Image Source

Tricia Sankey

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