The Dancing Bean Cafe on Willow Street,
sculpted with a wooden knife,
disintegrates and emerges
under the island sun, moss and rain,
singing its slow song with the forest.
warm and wooden,
three generations old,
uneven planked floors, painted, worn bare,
throw rugs here and there,
An island building shouldering another winter,
hollowed out with hammer and saw,
logs and rough beams
shoulder the roof
over tables, chairs of old wood,
the finish long worn away.
Freshly perked, casually understated,
like a trail of driftwood along the shore
showing where high tide has been,
Grandma's house recycled into a cafe
complete with cookies and cakes.
People are tucked away at tables in dim corners,
Grandpa reads a book nursing coffee
at the same table everyday,
regulars read newspapers, work at laptops
A violin, guitar and flute play Celtic folk,
songs of travelers and old friends re-uniting,
students home for holidays.
the clink of cups and spoons,
aromas of fresh baking, fancy javas,
voices falling, rising. falling,
with rains and winds,
tides and forest.
We arrive with lives incomplete,
drawn into an assembly of travelers
retreating from the busy street,
finding a wooden cave, a pause,
with dark coffee and something sweet.