Monday, December 23, 2013

Coffee, Hopes and Misanthropes

When pressed about her misanthropy
She’d say she was forced into it
By a world, alien and bizarre
Love was a beauteous concept
That to her, was a bit too far

A baker’s dozen tries
A decade of disquiet
And she’d had enough

She ground and brewed her coffee
Tended her own small plot of land
Cut down a pine tree each Thanksgiving
A blueberry pie baking, prepared by her hand

It’s not that she didn’t like people
She always had, still did
But a safe distance seemed prudent
So in her home, she hid

Shopping for trinkets
The day before Christmas eve
To place upon her misshapen tree
They met, for a second time

The first time they’d met
He'd gazed first into her eyes
Then at her art
She'd had a strange sense
He'd seen straight to her heart

She questioned the possibility
Though slim
That her wish upon a solstice star
In a second chance meet
With him

What’s the harm, she wondered
In coffee,
In a quick date?
Third time’s a charm?

The future uncertain
Her hopes rising
The next day
She would see
Would know
What might, or might not, be

He seemed another misanthrope
But that might be just right
If only he could see her whole
Gaze bravely at her soul

Steve Robison

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