Because I know I will be asked, I am reprinting the poem here:
Reading a Hot Drink
When I write,
I pour my soul into the words
Where it swirls with the ink
And tastes like espresso
Marbled with the richest cream.
But when my daughter reads it,
Its flavor changes.
She delights in the hues of dark chocolate
With bobbing white dots of mini marshmallows.
My husband savors it as warm mulled cider
Stirred with a cinnamon stick.
My mother sips my poetry as tea,
Earl Grey, hot, with lowfat milk
My father sees my words in their simplicity.
For him, the aroma of fresh black coffee is enough.
And there has been the occasional friend
That scalds her tongue on the hot water
With a twist of lemon
And politely smiles as she passes it back.
I’m not offended.
My soul has many flavors
When I mix it with ink.