Morning Light on Arbutus Street

In a cottage where time moves slow, Steam rises like morning prayers, And beans tell stories only we know— Of distant hills and careful care.

The grinder hums its ancient song, While neighbors pause at painted doors, Where coffee calls the day along And warmth spills out on wooden floors.

Here, hands cup more than ceramic— They hold the weight of quiet talk, The gentle pull of something magic That turns a street into a walk

Through moments made of milk and gold, Of laughter shared and stories told, Where every cup becomes a home And none who enter drink alone.

The Arbutus trees that named our street Stand witness to this daily grace: How strangers' eyes at last can meet Over coffee in this cherished place.

So come when morning light grows long, When afternoon shadows fall— Our cottage holds its welcoming song For neighbors, strangers, one and all.