Mug

I slip my fingers through the handle and cup the hot ceramic. My hand burns when I hold on too long. Give it time. Let it cool. I bring my nose to the lip. Steam makes my eyes tear and dampens my face. Citrus from the lemon clings to the steam and rises. I place both my hands on either side of the mug and cross my thumbs. It’s as if I am praying. Everything slows down around me. I take a sip with a loud slurp and the tea burns my tongue. This is the process of coming to know the warmth of patience.

Empty Booth

The clean silverware is delicately wrapped in its cloth napkin. The sugar packets grind against the splenda, push to the edges of dispenser. There are no spills to sop, no stains to scrub, no tips to collect, no customers to neglect. No gloves forgotten on the green cushion booth. No eggs frying in the kitchen or ice tumbling from the fountain. You can smell the coffee, simmering stale. A fire gasses by the tables. Not but one to warm their toes and fingers. The booth is empty. Place mats and menus set.

The first real DC snowfall of the season

Pinecone

Crisp petals peel away, let the stem breathe. Globs of sap cling to the tips, hope for the sun to make them drip or a finger to break open the sticky spice. The piney smell touches my nostrils when I bring my fingers to my nose. It feels like a mild glue, only natural, tastes like a tree. This bud, lain upon a bed of dry needles, is seen when I look down at where my feet trample. I crushed several before I found this rigid flower. The brown shade is deep toward the center, like wet earth. The petals look like leaves, arching toward light, opening the aroma of winter, spice, life.

New Camera. Lots of photos to come.

Weekly Videos

Visit the TSF youtube channel to watch weekly videos of live acoustic original and cover songs. -Trevor