A Cup of Coffee at Spring's Diner

snow leans against April's gust,
drifts onto a tree's coat of pink blossoms.
a woman swirls granular lies into a cup of milky truth,
sips and sings to the fogged window, quietly
daydreaming of fresh flowers to weave
with arthritic fingers and faded curls of gold.
a man's drink is plain, bitter and piping hot.
to drink it down, he burns lips and tongue and the roof of the mouth.
flecks of ice vanish into the grey hairs grown out of cheeks and chin.
his beard thaws like dead wheat.