The Frost on the Windows

A poem describing the coffee shop in my neighborhood that is my sanctuary.

The frosted windows,

The cold wind blowing

Outside in the world.

Whispering then pounding.

Snow covers the ground

And the trees, creating

A peaceful blanket

On the shoulders and curbs.

But here, in this sanctuary,

This fortress of peace,

There is warmth

Emanating all around.

A furnace is present, yes,

But is not the main source

Of the warmth;

It is a fireless form.

The warmth is born

Of the rich dark wood,

The muted tones that cover the walls,

And the earthy decor.

While all outside these walls

Is dying, fading,

Inside, there is life

Of all things.

The flowers on the rocks,

The cougar resting;

The goat on the wall,

The fox on the shelf.

Here, dreams are born,

Art is created,

Careers are fed

And doubts are incinerated.

Warmth comes from

The smiles of the employees,

And the chalk boards

With their dusty residue.

The curtains on the walls,

The outlet on the ceiling.

Who would have ever guessed

That this was a place of healing.