As I sit at the brightly colored batik table cloth,
the scents of sweet, pungent spices permeate the air;
I can almost feel them, prickly and penetrating.
(The cinnamon predominates.)
And I can almost feel the gentle plucking of the lute,
today's choice in the daily experiment,
finding a new compoer, A to Z
(Today's is Luys de Narva'ez.)
The mug I made from speckled buff cradles the warm brown of the coffee.
I savor the sip of acrid richness;
it craves a complementary sweetness.
(Is the bread pudding ready?)
Tasting touching, seeing, smelling, hearing:
all present and accounted for, not one missing.
But I float in a sensory deprivation chamber.
(If a tree falls in the wood and no one is there....?)
Not so long ago I sat at a friend's table.
We clinked glasses, we shared smiles.
I can almost feel our voices, rising and falling softly.
(I am comforted.)
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