There is a cafe
where love is the main dish.
It is in our town —
right between the beautician's parlor
and a lake where swans
effortlessly glide.
All my life I have ached
for what the world could be
if it awoke to the task
of birthing beautiful dreams,
if it carried in its heart
the ecstasy of angels.
In this cafe,
the waitresses are angels,
serving an infection of love,
healing the human spirit
with long, warm hugs,
cups of smiles,
platters of beautiful words.
The world is so hungry for love,
— not soulless selfishness as sex —
but love that opens your chest into
a great spaciousness of light,
or instinctively lays hands on your head
for a moment of blessing.
It is love that opens our eyes
to spiritual visions that have fed us
for thousands of years.
And it is love that calls us
to the great task before us:
the hard work of joy,
the descent into the dark
to transform our souls
until honey runs in our blood.
There is a cafe
where love
is a thousand times
tastier then its savory dishes.
It is in our town:
right between the cracks in the sidewalk
and an eternal dream.