says the barista
when I admire the décor
riding the surface
of my green drink,
but I respect her artistry
and stare at its persistence
although I’ve now savored
enough to be recorded
in kelp-colored residuals
—a foam of bubbles, miniatures—
all around the upper third
of my tall glass, a seashore
for my matcha, tide receding.

The morning light entering
the coffee shop filters
through suspended ash of forests
burning at a pass to the north.
What recently made trees
stings our eyes and nostrils.
Each breath of this air
meets a yearning—
Let it float, this heart,
until we all arrive
at the far side of every fire.

Categories Poetry

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.

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